#i have therapy at two i am so fucking pumped for real
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#all cozy in bed it feels so nice#i love being in bed man#best fucking feeling#ok. what’s my game plan for tomorrow#i have therapy at two i am so fucking pumped for real#gotta leave at like 1:40 sick sick#uhhh before then i wanna work on my card for my mom#i need to get that done before next week and i’m gunna be insane busy next week#so i should finish it soon#anyways. i’ll prolly play a good amount of minecraft#cuz a server im in finally re set and i’ve been having a fucking blast on it#i wish i could play more. like aaaallllll day#but i got my little job and stuff#rlly loving it tho it’s tons of fun#everyone is very nice and cool#i have this feeling that i am forgetting something which i hate#i think i’m just stil feeling mentally uuhhhh focused from my addy#and it makes me wanna like be productive and do stuff#but physically i’m worn out#my body man. love it 😭#ok i’m gunna go on pinterest. maybe watch some slime vids if i’m feeling crazy
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I have a dental infection AND a UTI at the same time, hahaha fuck this shit man. This is life on a B-cell depleting drug therapy. I am pumped full of antibiotics now, which is always worrisome because I am pretty barfy on a good day (yeah that B-cell depleting drug therapy? a gentle way of saying CANCER MEDICINE. That's what they give MS patients. Cancer medicine. Mine treats leukemia!), but I have promethazine which is pretty good anti-emetic and i also got some weed gummies and RSO to drizzle over the gummies and a big giant Fiji which is of course, King Water
I haven't had edibles in like. 3 months? I used to get RSO all the time and my tolerance was ridiculous. So I decided to stick to inhalation and started getting the higher quality vapes (full-spectrum, live resin) just stocking on them when they go on flash sale, and doing dabs on Big Mom, my giant golden bong. The result is that this RSO/gummy combo along with a couple percocets has me feeling DECENT. Edible really is my favorite route. I mean I still feel sick? But like, cozy and comfortable about it haha. And stoned.
I get these infections just ??? from fucking nowhere??? because I have no immune system and people wonder why I don't go out. But you know, on the other hand, covid and learning how to avoid illnesss has meant I have not gotten BIG SICK except for the one time I got covid. I'm still not sure how I got it, but my labs had shown like two days before I got covid that my immunoglobulin levels had cratered because of the Kesimpta (the aforementioned cancer medicine) and then poof, got covid 2 years in. But other than covid, I haven't gotten the flu, which used to be a given even with the flu shot, I haven't gotten the RSV, I haven't gotten any of the many really wicked colds that were floating around. I still wear KN-95 masks everywhere and I get comments about it from the REAL AMERICANS of south Florida, but whatever, the comments just proof I don't want to breathe in their unvaccinated particles???
Anyway. My poor roommate ALSO has a dental infection, which is crazy, but hers comes from stress grinding her teeth in her sleep to the point of breaking them (!) and the infection got into her jaw (!!!) and she spending the night in the hospital :( Poor thing. It just sucks, man. She doesn't have insurance so she wasn't able to just, email her doctors the way I could and then go pick up her zero copay meds. She had to wait until it got TERRIBLE enough to be admitted to the hospital. Why? BECAUSE FLORIDA HASN'T ACCEPTED MEDICAID EXPANSION 🙃
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I had two 12oz redbulls and a 16oz monster today and I'm alive out of pure spite
TW for: food relationship, depression, self medication
So maybe I'm not just alive out of pure spite but it sounded more fun that way lol I'm mainly alive from riding the Eras Tour high (thank you Seattle and Taylor Alison Swift) (no, I don't live in Seattle but I did fly there).
So I haven't slept since Thursday.
Not entirely true, I mostly slept last night and the night before so really I hadn't sleep Thursday-Sunday but Sunday night was chill.
I did overly pump myself with caffeine today and it did exactly z e r o help at work which sucked.
I have therapy on Friday and I'm 95% sure I'm going to cancel. I don't think I like my therapist.
It's been a couple of sessions and:
Talking about myself is uncomfortable as fuck (yes, I realized the irony of this as I am semi journaling on a public platform but bffr, no one is reading this and if they ARE I have know way of knowing)
I'm not against natural remedies persay but e v e r y t h i n g she suggests is natural remedies? Tea for insomnia, roots to eat to help focus for the possible ADHD (on top of the fact that I've asked more than once to see a psych to at least get a diagnosis to know for sure if I have it, especially since I apparently check most of the boxes? But then she asked why I would want them? Um... cuz I wanna know? And I'm going into grad school and don't have time to be fighting my brain all the time?), exercise to raise serotonin to help depression (which yes I understand the science there but TW ALERT I have some... food and body issues we shall say that turn into spirals v quickly of I will go to the gym for two hours and only eat a singular granola bar for the whole day. So like. Yeahhhh when she said I might be depressed because "maybe you need to exercise more" that was fun lol Especially when I know I obviously don't look like I have said issues in the stereotypical sense)
So like. You could see why after a few sessions I'm not too keen on going back. I've been on a bit of an up swing anyway so like *shrug*
The reason I started going to therapy again was because things were... not ideal. Not that I was actively gonna do something. But also like. If I fell into an eternal slumber, I wouldn't necessarily have been mad about it typa deal. Kinda hoping for the whole eternal sleep thing but not doing anything to cause it, ya feel? But now things are fine and I can't help but feel like I was being dramatic because like. I'm fine. Everything is fine. And I really have nothing to complain about. So like. Dramatic, ya know?
It feels silly to me a lot of the time. People have real issues and real trauma, and I haveeee. A trip to London and Paris coming in the fall... so like. What the fuck do I need to be in therapy for? It just. Feels kinda fake. Like I'm being dramatic.
I feel like sometimes I build shit up in my head too much and then I stop and I'm like. Why. There are so many other things happening, so many other people with real life issues, and then here I am. I don't like it.
I was smoking a LOT of weed for a LONG time to just kinda coast ya know? To either feel something if I felt nothing or to feel something else other than what I was feeling. Which is great, and worked, but with my job if I get caught I will no longer have said job. Also the fact that like, weed sleep is a THING and where as not being hungover is great, I'll loose half the day knocked tf out (which considering the sleep situation might not be the worst thing so maybe I should go to the local dispensary lmao but then it makes me eat a bunch and then I feel awful the next day and cycles and cycles and cycles). So unfortunately/fortunately that is a no go cuz work and I gotta be awake enough to do hw man.
So yeah. I'm kind of in the "fuck therapy, I'm fine" mind set lately. Yeah, I get some intense lows but they haven't been consistent like they were plus I don't even know what fucking causes them. Somedays I just wake up and it's like, "oh cool, I'm floating in an abyss today". Some days I know if I spend too much time alone, my thoughts will suffocate me. Some days I wake up normal, and halfway through they day a switch flips out of nowhere and I'm just exhausted and don't want to exist. Sometimes I'm so numb or out of it I know I just shouldn't be driving because I feel nothing or feel out of my body.
But lately there's been none of that, and I've been good. So.
Yikes, this shit is not linear at all lol It's going in any and all directions. And there really is no point to it either. Just. Wanted to talk to myself about some things in my brain. But either way.
Therapy on Friday. Be there or be square! 98% sure I'm gonna be square because I just simplyyyyy do not want to go, nor do I see the point of it at the moment.
I also probably really need sleep. Or at least more sleep since I did in fact sleep pretty decently last night.
Oh! I'm also kind of in love with Taylor Zakhar Perez. He's so pretty it's irritating lmao He's also gonna play Alex in the RW&RB movie and I can't wait. I'm watching it with Lex on Saturday (Aug 12) since she has D&D on Aug 11 (cries in I wanted to watch it that night but I GUESS I'll fucking wait lol). But yeah. Hashtag daddy
-Seven
07.26.2023
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Hi I first sent this ask a while ago but it was about how I always see fics with Remus first joining as a player and was wondering if you could write one with Remus FIRST FIRST joining as a PT? I dont want to bother you though!
Of course! I love some baby Loops content <3 SW credit goes to @lumosinlove!
TW for minor injury
Remus was sure he was going to buzz right out of his skin. Or puke. Maybe both. Whatever it was, at least it would make an impression.
Not a good one, mind you. Just one that would make him unforgettable.
“Oh, god,” he muttered, clutching the sides of his binder as he turned down yet another linoleum hallway. The rink was too big; he was lost on his first day, his first hour, and he would be the laughingstock of the team for the rest of his—
“Hey!” Remus froze, then slowly turned.
A mixture of fear and relief flooded through him so fast he almost blacked out. “Mr. Moody, I’m so sorry I’m late—”
Moody waved him off. “Lost?”
“Well, not really. I mean, sort of, but not lost lost—”
“Kid.” Remus shut his mouth. His backpack suddenly weighed as much as an elephant. Moody gave him a once-over before clapping a broad hand on his shoulder and guiding him in the opposite direction, down a side hall with a shiny black sign labeled ‘Physical Therapy Offices’ and a little arrow. Dumbass. You walked right past it.
“I really am sorry about being late,” he tried again, nearly tripping over a ‘Wet Floor’ sign.
“Don’t sweat it. Happens to everyone.” Moody stopped short and gestured to two doors on either side of the hall. “My office, your office. Locker room is down there and to the right if one of those sweaty bastards breaks another bone. Oh, and Lupin?”
Remus’ throat seized for a moment. “Yes?”
“Don’t fuck with their superstitions.” His tone had new weight to it, and his eyes were shadowed with some far-off memory. Remus didn’t want to know what happened to the last person that broke the rule. The strange quiet lifted after another two seconds and Moody patted his back with the approximation of a smile. “Welcome to the Lions.”
Without another word, he marched into his office and shut the door with a decisive click. “Okay,” Remus murmured to himself. “Alright. You’re here, this is your office, you can do this. No big deal. It’s just your first real job.”
The pale wood of the door watched him, silent as the grave. Remus took a deep breath through his nose and carefully pushed it open.
It was certainly an office. Quite a normal one, actually, though Remus didn’t know what else he had expected. Clean and tidy, with an empty desk to one side and an examination table on the other. Whiteboards decorated a couple of the walls—all blank, of course—and the floor was the same linoleum as the rest of the rink. “Huh,” he said aloud. “Right, then.”
Remus set his binder and backpack on the desk and turned in a slow circle, soaking it in. It even smelled fresh, but the scent of bleach and lemon cleaning solution made him wrinkle his nose. I might need a candle. Hell, just some Febreeze would do.
He crossed the room and shut the heavy door with the same satisfying click as Moody’s, then immediately whipped around and pumped both fists in the air with a silent whoop of joy. “My office,” he whispered giddily. “My office, as the Lions PT, oh hell yes.”
The door flew open.
“What the fuck?” he blurted, spinning on his heel and only barely stifling a shriek.
The shorter man cocked his head in confusion. “You’re not Moody.”
“Remus Lupin, the new PT.”
“James Potter, winger.”
“Ow,” his friend groaned, still holding one hand over his eye.
Remus’ heart skipped a beat. “Oh my god, Sirius Black.”
Sirius grimaced and gestured in a vague wave. “Bonjour. I’m going blind.”
“You’re so fucking dramatic,” James sighed, sitting him down on the exam table with a roll of his eyes. “Loops, it really isn’t that bad.”
“…Loops?”
“Lupin, Loops, you get it. Can you please soothe the baby?”
Sirius glared at him through his good eye. “You little—”
“Tilt your head back,” Remus ordered as soon as he recovered from the shock of having a hockey nickname. His team had called him Moony, but Loops…he had to admit it had a nice ring to it. The idea of having a team nickname at all sent a thrill through every nerve as he pulled Sirius’ hand away and looked into his eye.
Pretty, was his first thought. The intensity of Sirius’ gaze on the ice had always amazed him, even through a TV screen—it was nothing compared to the real thing. Silver shot through clear blue-gray like filigree; it was bright as a star despite the redness. “Am I dying?” Sirius asked drily. “Cause you’re just a blur right now.”
“You’re not dying,” Remus assured him. “You might need eyedrops, though. What happened?”
“Pots is an asshole.”
James heaved another sigh. “Getting hit in the eye with a waterbottle lid I may or may not have loosened does not make me an asshole.”
“Yes, it does.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“Yes, it does.”
“No, it doesn’t—”
“Shut up, both of you.” A flash of fear slipped up Remus’ spine. I just told two of my heroes to shut up. Forget Sirius, I’m going to die. The room fell silent.
“Oh, I like him,” James said with a grin.
“You’re good to go,” Remus said after a moment longer. “I don’t have anything set up right now, so you should check with Moody and ask for those eyedrops.”
“Merci,” Sirius said as he stood and stretched, batting James’ hands away as they headed back out into the hall. “Don’t touch me, you cretin!”
“Oh, look at me, I use fancy French words,” James mimicked in a high voice.
“It’s not French, dumbass.”
Their bickering continued even after the heavy door closed, leaving Remus alone once again. His pulse raced. An hour into his first day of work, and he had already helped the team. Hell, he had helped The Sirius Black. “This is fucking insane,” he said aloud. “And it’s my job.”
He opened his binder and quickly flipped to the roster. They had some new faces this year and it seemed like half of them had lingering injuries he needed to memorize. Remus would have to know more than just their faces and medical history to make a difference, but he would get there eventually. Maybe it would take a while for them to warm up to him—maybe he would remain Moody’s minion for the rest of his tenure. He would never be part of the team, not really, but looking at that roster…
Well, he could almost believe he was one of them.
#remus lupin#alastor moody#james potter#sirius black#sweater weather#lumosinlove#loops#my fic#fanfic#first day
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BnHA Chapter 292: You Say Jeans
Previously on BnHA: Horikoshi was all “well anyway here’s that Touya reveal I foreshadowed like a million years ago, viva la 2020.” Dabi was all “hello world, I’ve killed 30 people and today I’m going to explain to you all why” before he proceeded to explain ABSOLUTELY NOTHING but everyone was so distracted by his tale of child abuse and hero conspiracies that they didn’t much seem to notice. Can’t Ya See-Kun’s Shark Friend was all “IS THIS THE END OF HERO SOCIETY AS WE KNOW IT”, and Horikoshi was all “STAY TUNED”, and then Dabi set himself on fire and leaped off of Machia’s back like the chaotic evil, I-just-bleached-all-my-brain-cells weird little fire man he is, ready to burn everyone to crispy bits before they could even react properly to his whole big revenge speech. Fortunately he did not succeed on account of THE RETURN OF THE JING, THE JOAT, BEST FUCKING JEANIST, back from the dead by popular demand in what critics are calling “the best fucking comeback since Jesus himself.”
Today on BnHA: Best Jeanist snatches up Machia and the rest of the League with his fiber steel cables before you can say “more like BEAST JEANIST amirite.” Dabi gets all worked up and lights Hadou on fire which is a real JERK MOVE, and is all “THIS RIGHT HERE IS ALSO ENDEAVOR’S FAULT”, which, NOT SUPER CONVINCED ON THAT, BUT OKAY. Anyway so then he burns up all the cables holding him which is crazeballs btw, and then he and Shouto start fighting, and so basically the whole thing is a literal hot mess and we’ll see how that goes. Meanwhile Tomura wakes up and summons some Noumus, and poor Jeanist has to deal with those on top of the still-attempting-to-rampage Gigantomachia, and everyone else is all “we can’t help you on account of we’re all half dead”, and so it’s looking really bad. And then -- and I can’t stress enough how much I don’t even have the faintest idea how to segue into this next part -- the chapter ends with Mirio!?! just sort of POPPING UP OUT OF THE GROUND all, “SURPRISE, BITCH”, and it literally was so surprising that I am still just kind of speechless. WELL-PLAYED, I GUESS, lol wtf.
lol okay so the first page in the RHA scan is just the “three musketeers” movie promo image that we all already saw a few days ago. but it does confirm that (a) it is indeed a movie, and (b) that it’s set for a summer 2021 release! how exciting
okay so now back to our special Dabi edition of Making a Murderer
“ray of hope” oh hell yes. SAVE US MR. JEANIST
I guess he had a TV in his private hero jet or something?
gotta say, “dammit Dabi” does not even remotely sound like Authentic Best Jeanist Dialogue to me though. gonna need Caleb to see to this. well but what do you guys think? does Best Jeanist curse?? I personally feel like he’s one of those guys who NEVER EVER swears no matter what, except under the most hilariously trifling circumstances. like he’s eating an avocado one day and he accidentally stains the cuffs of his beloved jostume green and he’s all “FUCK”
btw how fucking rich is Best Jeanist though that he has his own fucking plane? the thought just suddenly occurred to me, you know? like even Endeavor, whose agency has its own on-site luxury apartment suites for all of his interns, still drives around in a dinky little car that Bakugou has declared to be too small. which, I guess we know why he felt that way now, seeing as the guy he previously interned with apparently gets around in Jeans Force One
anyway so back to the part where Jeanist shows up to save the day!! YEAH JEANIST WOOOOO
ILU JEANIST YOU REALLY ARE THE BEST!! HUGS AND KISSES!!!
lmao we just saw Gigantomachia take out like a hundred guys not ten chapters ago. and Best Jeanist shows up and takes him down in like two seconds. HOW DO YOU LIKE THEM APPLES LEAGUE OF VILLAINS. BET YOU’RE WISHING YOU’D TAKEN HIS QUIRK NOW, AFO. GET FUCKED YOU OLD SPUD
KACCHAN IS SO HAPPY TO SEE HIM AWW
SIDE NOTE, IIDA, YOU AND I ARE GONNA HAVE WORDS LATER ABOUT YOU ACTUALLY AGREEING TO PUT HIM BACK DOWN. YOU DO UNDERSTAND THAT THIS CHILD IS STILL DRIPPING BLOOD ALL OVER THE PLACE FROM HIS MULTIPLE STAB WOUNDS, RIGHT? WAY TO ASSERT YOUR AUTHORITY THERE. I THOUGHT YOU WERE THE CLASS PRESIDENT NOT THE CLASS CLOWN, COME ON NOW
LMAO DABI IS FRANTICALLY TRYING TO DO THE PLOT MATH
SHOULDA CHECKED MORE CLOSELY MY GOOD MARK. LOOKS LIKE YOU MISSED THE “MADE IN CHINA” STICKER ON THE BOTTOM. YOU HAVE BEEN BAMBOOZLED. OR ACTUALLY, I GUESS THE MORE ACCURATE WORD HERE IS JAMBOOZLED, AHAHAHAHA. JEANS
HOLY SHIT DABI
I legit almost thought that was Tomura for a second. you two look so alike now with the white hair and the crazy eyes
meanwhile, Shouto is still crying and it’s a lot to take, you guys. lotta feels
ffff come on Jeanist you better do something awesome again here, the mood of the chapter is starting to slip now
YES, GOOD, THAT’LL WORK
WELL YOU TELL ME, SPINNER. I GUESS THAT MEANS BEST JEANIST IS OFFICIALLY THE STRONGEST CHARACTER IN THE SERIES NOW. SORRY I DON’T MAKE THE RULES
ffff now Spinner is trying to wake Tomura back up. nah, how’s about we not do that
OH MY GOD HADOU YESSSS
MY GIRL OUT HERE WITH THE “NO THANK YOU” BOUT TO CURBSTOMP THE BIG BAD WITH HER QUIRK KSFHLKLK WHO HERE HAD “HADOU SAVES THE DAY” ON YOUR WAR ARC BINGO CARDS, YOU LOVE TO SEE IT!!
HEY!!!!
fucking son of a... fffkfkff... someone please reassure me that fire isn’t Hadou’s weakness. someone. anyone. also could someone please dial an ambulance and send them to Horikoshi’s house. but not just yet. first I’m gonna need you to wait about fifteen minutes or so while I take care of some things
well all right then, Dabi. so you wanna go on then and explain to us all how this, too, is somehow Endeavor’s fault?
oh I see, you’ve decided that since he’s responsible for “creating” you, everyone you hurt and kill is in truth really being hurt and killed by him! well now, that sure is convenient as fuck I guess
(ETA: that’s a nice effect with the panel sides getting all warped by Dabi’s quirk though, just noticed that.)
amazing how quickly you used up that sympathy card my guy. Shouto please kick his ass, I’m fucking done lol, you can all sort out the rest in therapy later
CAN SOMEONE PLEASE DIAL BACK DEKU’S EMPATHY STATS JUST A LITTLE BIT, HOLY --
“TODOROKI-KUN IS HURT THE MOST”, HE SAYS, WITH HIS ARM BONES SHATTERED INTO LITTLE TOOTHPICK-SIZED PIECES. I MEAN, HE’S PROBABLY TALKING MORE ABOUT MENTAL ANGUISH GIVEN THE CONTEXT HERE, BUT STILL. THAT’S ENOUGH HEROICS FROM YOU ALREADY FOR ONE DAY
NOOO JEANIST
LOTS OF SMOKE IN THE AIR RIGHT ABOUT NOW AND MY BOY’S STILL DOWN A LUNG. GOD DAMMIT
“if the number one suffers a total loss here, this country will fall to pieces” well okay, real talk though, I think the “country falling to pieces” part is pretty much unavoidable at this juncture. you all are just gonna have to try your best to pick up those pieces after the fact and see what you can do with them. if I were you I’d be less worried about the number one’s reputation and more concerned with the half-dozen child soldier interns who are still on the field and very much at risk of being burned to death should you suffer that “total loss.” please try to keep it together here for them
OH FOR FUCK’S
I really thought RockLockRock was gonna come into play here. USE YOUR QUIRK TO LOCK THE ROPES IN PLACE YOU DIP!! if he seriously just sits there and does nothing when his quirk could be the deciding factor I am cancelling his useless ass cute kid or no cute kid shfkjdls
(ETA: is he even there?? did he and Manual just hightail it out of there?? “well good luck, children.”)
also, we’ll put this aside for now to perhaps speculate about later, but what’s with Tomura remembering his dad’s house yet again in that far right panel?? and being itchy again?? I still have yet to fully work out the psychological mechanisms at work as far as his itchiness goes, so I’ll admit this is intriguing to me. it seemed like it was connected to his decay quirk, but then why is it acting up again now. what is this lol
yuh oh
forgot about these guys. looks like these heroes aren’t having such a fun time
oh fucksticks
excuse me ma’am but I don’t like this. you do know that my kids are all there, right. all burnt and impaled and broken-boned and the like. well except for Iida. he’s fine still. BUT THAT DOESN’T MEAN I FEEL LIKE WATCHING HIM GET TORN APART BY FOUR HIGH ENDS, WTF
HORIKOSHI YOU MOTHERFUCKER I SWEAR TO GOD
god fucking... okay look. Horikoshi. you win, okay!? congratulations, you win, this is your show and we’re all just sitting here at your mercy. fine. go ahead and just kill off everyone ever, then!! what am I even gonna do about it. stop reading?? fuck
this whole thing really went from zero to fucked before I could even blink huh. I really thought this was gonna be a turning point chapter for the heroes. shows what I know I guess??
meanwhile this motherfucker is just SCREAMING
ngl, if I wasn’t currently terrified on account of things suddenly taking such a drastic turn for the worse, this would be the coolest fucking thing I’ve ever seen. Jeanist my man, I hype you up like it’s my job because you are the greatest fucking meme character in the history of time, but make no mistake, you are also highkey WORTH ALL THE HYPE AND THEN SOME
seriously, though. don’t fucking mind him you guys, he’s just standing here in the coolest pose of all time taking on Gigantomachia all alone with one fucking lung because the substance pumping through his veins is COLD-BLOODED LIQUID DENIM, and DENIM FEELS NO FEAR
Best Jeanist really needs to get his own theme song. -- oh my god I just finally thought of a title for this post. lmao and it’s the dumbest thing. omg
MEANWHILE THE TODOROKI BROS ARE OFF IN THEIR OWN DRAMATIC LITTLE FIRE WORLD
which one do you think is the Mario and which is the Luigi. well, but I mean, Dabi clearly thinks that he’s the Luigi though and that’s why he’s so mad. nobody wants to be Luigi. what a life
THAT’S IT, SHOUTO!! POINT OUT ALL OF HIS HYPOCRITICAL BULLSHIT, I WANT ANSWERS
JUST TO CLARIFY, IT’S THAT NATSU, NOT SOME OTHER NATSU!! SO WHAT DO YOU HAVE TO SAY FOR YOURSELF!!
OH, WELL IN THAT CASE
BUT OF COURSE. THAT WOULD MAKE IT ALL WORTHWHILE, holy shit. okay I’m just gonna go ahead and say it, Dabi is a piece of work. I really thought this arc would make him more sympathetic at long last, but it seems like it’s doing just the opposite?? this is like an anti-redemption arc. I don’t relish the thought of venturing into the fandom tags once I finish reading this lol
(ETA: well folks, I’ve done it. and actually it was pretty interesting because there are apparently like ten different things that people are mad about, and so it’s like. each post is a new adventure lmao.)
so Shouto is all “BRUH HAVE YOU COMPLETELY LOST IT” and Dabi is all “YES”, basically? like, he says he’s completely lost his feeling for anything. omg. but you were so sweet. how does that even happen
“finally I can kill you” okay for real what the heck is your damage bro?? can we not. I like Shouto just the way he is, un-killed
oh shit and now the Noumus are here
cue Bakugou diving in to save his mentor, STAB WOUNDS BE DAMNED!! actually it would make more sense for it to be Iida, but if Kacchan is really fixin’ to go full Shounen Dumbass here then he might as well go all out, y’know
-- unless of course, Deku decides to activate another quirk??
“last I checked, the main character of this series was still me” OH? WELL I SUPPOSE THAT IS TRUE, SO PRAY TELL, WHAT HAVE YOU GOT LEFT UP YOUR SLEEVE YOU SUICIDAL BRUSSELS SPROUT
fucking love how he’s all “HAHAHA WITH MY NEW QUIRKS I CAN STILL DO STUPID SHIT EVEN WITH MY ARMS AND LEGS GROUND TO A FINE POWDER” btw. what can I say. Deku gonna Deku
FMMFHDKUHK W H A T
HOLY SHIT. HOLY FUCKING SHIT. WHAT THE WHAT. QUE THE FUCK
(ETA: okay look, all the love in the world to the brave scanlators who take time out of their lives to translate the leaks every week just so we can read the chapter a couple of days early like the addicts we are. that said, translating Mirio’s signature “POWER!!” -- which was already written in English in the original scan -- to “POG-CHAMP” is just a whole new level of wtfuckery from them lmao. is the Lida person back at it again?? amazing.)
MIRIO!?!?! SHOWS UP TO SAVE THE DAY?!?! POGS HIMSELF UP OUT THE GROUND TO BEAT THE NOUMUS LIKE IT AIN’T NO THING. JUST LIKE WE ALL PREDICTED!? I’M SORRY, DID YOU NOT SEE THAT COMING?? YOU MEAN TO TELL ME YOUR DAILY HOROSCOPE FROM ASTROLOGY DOT COM DIDN’T HAVE THAT ONE IN THE CARDS?? WAS IT NOT OBVIOUS?? TODOROKIS PLUS BEST JEANIST EQUALS MIRIO??
hot damn. Tintin really saw the writing on the wall with the impending Dabi Discourse and was all “NOT SO FAST” lmao. “HERE’S A BRAND NEW THING FOR YOU ALL TO DISCOURSE ABOUT” MIRIO YOU WILD CHILD. YOU GLORIOUS THUG
MEANWHILE LET’S NOT FORGET WHAT MIRIO HAVING HIS POWERS BACK ACTUALLY IMPLIES. HOLY SHIT. SUDDENLY WE CUT BACK TO ALL MIGHT’S OFFICE, ALL THE WAY BACK AT UA. ERI BRANDISHES HER TOKOYAMI-GIFTED BUSTER SWORD, A DETERMINED GLEAM IN HER EYE. “I HEARD YOU WERE TRYING TO HAVE A GIRL POWER ARC WITHOUT ME.” OH. MY. GOD
#bnha 292#best jeanist#todoroki touya#dabi#todoroki shouto#midoriya izuku#hadou nejire#toogata mirio#bnha#boku no hero academia#bnha spoilers#mha spoilers#bnha manga spoilers#makeste reads bnha
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It’s early morning, I’ve only had one cup of coffee, and thus my patience does not exist. So I’m going to rant a little.
I am getting real tired of the argument regarding the ending of the Remake that follows the train of thought that, “The whole point to Zack Fair’s character was that he was meant to die so that Cloud could become the Cloud we know and love. Y’know, the guy that desperately needs some therapy but wasn’t as depressed as Advent Children makes you think, because if you read On the Way to a Smile you’d know that he spent the two years between OG and AC being more optimistic than Tifa and Barret when it came to moving the fuck on with their lives and not wallowing in self-pity or guilt.”
Ahem.
One, alright. Point one: Zack does not need to be dead to have Cloud do Cloud for...all of the OG. Well, I’ll give you 85-90% of the OG. Mmkay? See, Cloud doesn’t know Zack exists. Cloud can spend the entire damn game not knowing the extent of Zack’s existence and what that meant for him because FOR SOME DAMN REASON Square hid the cutscene with their past as experiments and runaways in the Shinra mansion’s basement and you could skip the fucking thing entirely. I should know, I did it twice before Advent Children came out and I went, “Wait, what happened?” And I had to find the cutscene on YouTube because I didn’t feel like playing through to Disc 2 to get it. ALSO! Since it’s a skippable event, once Cloud remembers this detail about their pasts...he doesn’t tell anyone. He doesn’t chat with Tifa about it. Nada.
Cool.
So, if Remake wants Zack Fair to be alive and kicking and Cloud has an oddly suspicious mental block that I don’t think is of Cloud’s own doing this go around, this subtracts nothing from Cloud’s smart ass, awkward-as-fuck personality. This subtracts nothing from Cloud going around thinking he’s SOLDIER 1st Class. Cloud’s character arc is not defeated by Zack being alive. The only thing that’s defeated is nostalgia and the infuriating idea that Zack’s character means nothing without his death.
Point two: I know of very few people who like Zack Fair because he died. I know very few people who would turn their nose up at him if he walked away from that cliff. Go look at the reactions of people playing the game. A majority of them were over the moon because he lived. They were happy because he lived. If their love for this character was tied only to his fate, if his fate was all that mattered in the grand scheme of things, then they would have been pissed that he dare survive.
I like Zack because of his personality. I consider Zack a hero because he dragged Cloud’s ass all the way from the North Continent down to Midgar for months and refused to let go. He would not abandon a friend. That’s what makes him a hero. That’s what his silly SOLDIER honor was all about. I don’t know why some of y’all need him to be pumped full of lead to reach heroic status but I’m tired of it.
You ain’t gotta like what Remake’s doing. You ain’t gotta have faith in it. But this little, “But Cloud :(. But Zack :(” argument I keep seeing honestly doesn’t have any weight outside of nostalgia.
#saan rants#ffvii remake spoilers#zack fair#cloud strife#ffvii spoilers#ffvii remake#ffvii#long post
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Continuation of Human Relations (Oh My God, They Were Roommates)
This is a 16k story that’s a bit too short for AO3 but a bit too long for Tumblr that acts as a continuation of my Archivist!Sasha and Immortal!Jon fic Human Relations. I recommend that you read that before this. This story takes place between S2 and S3, and is about Sasha and Georgie’s roommate adventures. I’m uncertain if I’ll continue this and post it on AO3, post it on AO3 as it is, or what, but for the time being I’ll at least post it here.
Serious content warnings for discussion of abusive friendships, gaslighting, discussion of 19th century racism, implied transphobia, and discussion of police brutality. Nothing more serious than what we saw in Human Relations, but it does have a much more explicit investigation of Jon and Elias’ relationship. Rest under the cut. Happy Birthday, @magickko.
EDIT: HAHA READMORE DIDN’T WORK, YIKES.
Sasha dreams, every night.
Nightmares, mostly. Statements given and Statements stolen run endlessly through her head in a scrolling loop, crying out for mercy, as its figures cry and scream. Sasha looks at them through a camera, pushing the button and clicking the shutter again and again and again, searching for that perfect shot frozen in time.
A woman, trapped under a thousand pounds of dirt and crumpling metal. Snap. A woman, chewing keycaps, eyes riveted on a flickering screen. Snap. A woman, lost in her fiance’s grave, pleading for someone to find her. Snap.
A man, eating canned peaches, alone. Snap. A man, swinging an axe with a frantic strength born of terror. Snap. A man, and the look in his eyes, betrayed. Snap. A man, gunshot wound leaking blood out of his chest, eyes rolling in the fluorescent lights. Snap.
When Sasha wakes up she is always surprised to find herself in a guest room, always out of place and out of time as she stares up at an unfamiliar ceiling. Maybe the worst part is those two seconds after waking, where she doesn’t know where she is, adrift in time and space. Then she remembers, and she’s faced with the situation all over again.
Namely, the fact that she was couch surfing in the Grim Reaper’s guest bedroom.
Sasha dreams, every night.
Nightmares, mostly. Statements given and Statements stolen run endlessly through her head in a scrolling loop, crying out for mercy, as its figures cry and scream. Sasha looks at them through a camera, pushing the button and clicking the shutter again and again and again, searching for that perfect shot frozen in time.
A woman, trapped under a thousand pounds of dirt and crumpling metal. Snap. A woman, chewing keycaps, eyes riveted on a flickering screen. Snap. A woman, lost in her fiance’s grave, pleading for someone to find her. Snap.
A man, eating canned peaches, alone. Snap. A man, swinging an axe with a frantic strength born of terror. Snap. A man, and the look in his eyes, betrayed. Snap. A man, gunshot wound leaking blood out of his chest, eyes rolling in the fluorescent lights. Snap.
When Sasha wakes up she is always surprised to find herself in a guest room, always out of place and out of time as she stares up at an unfamiliar ceiling. Maybe the worst part is those two seconds after waking, where she doesn’t know where she is, adrift in time and space. Then she remembers, and she’s faced with the situation all over again.
Namely, the fact that she was couch surfing in the Grim Reaper’s guest bedroom.
Georgie Barker wasn’t a mystery, and she’d be the first to tell you.
Of course you’re welcome to stay as long as you need, honey! I always love having Jonah owe me a favor. Don’t worry about the cops and the law, nobody will ever find you here. Seriously, the entire department’s in my pocket. It’s no hassle having you here, it’s a big flat! It’s been years since I’ve had a roommate, this’ll be fun!
The one thing she hadn’t understood was Sasha begging her not to let Jon in to see her. He knows exactly where you are, Georgie pointed out. He knows you’re not actually a murderer, Georgie said. He might be able to help explain some of what’s going on, Georgie hinted. Jon would respect my wishes, but if Jonah really wants him to talk to you, he’ll definitely do it...
“Please,” Sasha had croaked, the uncomfortable morning after she had stumbled into Georgie’s flat. The Admiral wove around her legs, purring up a storm, and Georgie was munching on avocado toast and sipping pomegranate juice. “I just - I just need some space.”
“Why?” Georgie asked obliviously. That was something that Sasha was rapidly learning about Georgie - she didn’t hold back with impolite questions, or her opinion. She seemed to be regarding Sasha’s life as her own personal Youtuber Drama, which Sasha really didn’t know how she felt about. Her life wasn’t a spectacle, but she guessed even the warfare and tragedy of ants were of obscure and strange interest to humanity. “He’s feeling, like, totally bad about framing you for murder. I can tell he super wants to apologize to you about everything.”
Martin’s words echoed through her mind, from what felt like a decade ago: Jon had ruined Martin’s life, but to him it was as simple as a momentary inconvenience. “I don’t want his apology,” Sasha croaked. “I want not to be on the run from the police. I want to go back to my flat. Unless he’s going to make me human again I don’t want any stupid apologies. They’re useless.”
“Hm. Well, you’re free to stay here as long as you need to, of course.” Georgie sipped at her tea. They were sitting around the breakfast table, Sasha desolately shoving eggs into her mouth as Georgie drank her tea that Sasha was reasonably sure was spiked with brandy. Rich people were literally never sober. “It’ll be so much fun, like a sleepover. We can do each other’s nails and talk about boys!”
“My boyfriend thought I was a monster for the past month and now thinks I’m a murderer,” Sasha said flatly.
“Oh, I see.” Georgie tapped her lips thoughtfully. “We have to get you laid, huh?”
“I am literally on the run from the cops.”
“That’s very sexy to some people,” Georgie assured her.
After that, Georgie waved goodbye and swanned out of the house, either going to her studio to work on her podcast or doing some work for her real estate empire or writing a best-selling book or schmoozing with celebrities or attending parties at exclusive nightclubs or working part-time as a bartender just for gossip or devouring souls. Just from Sasha’s one day at Georgie’s flat, she knew that she did all of these things and then some. It was a stunning contrast to Jon’s laziness, or Elias (Jonah’s) single-mindedness.
Maybe you lost the energy to be so productive after your two hundredth year. Sasha didn’t fucking know. Hopefully she would never know. Or maybe Jon just appeared to be lazy, and every moment that he was complaining about being bored he was secretly manipulating world leaders. Maybe Jonah’s dedication to spreadsheets and dress code was a front, and he was secretly pulling the puppet strings of her entire life…
In the empty spaces of Georgie’s spacious flat, it was easy to be paranoid. Sasha lay on her luxurious couch, hands folded across her chest like a corpse, trying not to think of anything, thinking of everything. Thinking of Tim: of his smile, of his scowl, of his cold looks given to someone he had thought was a stranger. Thinking of Martin: his warm smile, his sharp looks.
She struggled to think of other friends, other family members who gave her comfort, but drew up a blank. Her parent’s faces were blurred after ten years of no contact, not so much forgotten as repressed, and her baby siblings were likely unrecognizable to her now. Almost as unrecognizable as she was to them, probably. Tim, her boyfriend who hated her, and Martin, her subordinate who she had almost never had a conversation with that wasn’t about work or Jon...that was it. All the friends she had in the world. She was sleeping in the guest room of a podcast host/Grim Reaper whom she had met once, and that was all she had.
Loneliness was Sasha’s constant companion. In a crowd, in her family, in the world - no matter how many people she had been surrounded by, she had always been alone. She had never had anybody in the world to rely on besides herself, and for the first time in a long time she was achingly aware of it. Nobody who loved her was going to help her. She was alone now.
After an hour of lying on the couch and crying, Sasha desolately watched Netflix cooking shows on Georgie’s gigantic flat-screen TV, trying very hard to think of absolutely nothing at all. She only moved to pet Georgie’s silky long-haired cat whose name she had already forgotten, and even he left quickly once she lost the energy to give him attention.
That was how Georgie found Sasha when she came home: lying on the couch, still dressed in borrowed silk pyjamas, watching idiots on television fuck up cakes. Georgie’s arms were laden with shopping bags, with names of exclusive London boutiques sprawled along the side, her deep black pits of eyes hidden by designer sunglasses. She burst through the door happily, her cat running up to her and winding through her laps as he purred, and easily kicked off her red pumps. She stopped in the doorway of the living room, looking strangely excited.
“Sorry I’m back to late! Utterly bogged up at work, there was a plane crash and I was processing corpses for hours. I had to do some serious retail therapy just to deal with the tedium - darling, have you moved?”
Sasha grunted.
“You look like Mikey Crew threw you off the Shard,” Georgie said sympathetically. “Utterly disastrous. Don’t worry, Aunt Georgie’s here to make you feel better.” She lifted her bag triumphantly. “I bought you new outfits!”
Sasha eyed her warily.
“You get no say in this,” Georgie said kindly. “Chop chop, we’re doing face masks too.”
That’s how, somehow, Sasha found herself playing an unwilling dress-up doll for the Grim Reaper. Georgie had taken Sasha’s casual mention that she had no clothing besides her work pantsuit to heart, and had hit up her favorite boutiques for ‘cute outfits that accentuated her figure and made her eyes pop!’. Or something. Sasha wasn’t much one for fashion.
As it turned out, Georgie Barker had a walk-in closet. Because of course she did.
The looks ranged from Sasha’s usual, as Georgie put it, ‘sexy librarian’ look, to ballgowns, to tennis outfits, to moddish, to vintage, to wintery. It was February, the seasons lingering in British chill, and according to Georgie the perfect solution to this was a mink coat that was probably worth a month’s rent on her flat.
Strangely, all of the outfits fit perfectly - and Sasha knew that her measurements were difficult to find. Georgie took it in stride, clapping enthusiastically each time and suggesting accessories and how to mix and match the outfits.
She would have thought that she was too dead inside to actually enjoy it, but so far as distractions went it actually worked pretty well. Georgie chatted about everything but their actual problems, and Sasha had absolutely no input or choice in what Georgie decided to dress her in, and by the time they had transitioned from nail painting to watching Legally Blonde and eating ice cream from the carton Sasha was actually feeling a little relaxed.
“The musical’s better,” Georgie informed Sasha imperiously as Sasha dug around in her carton for chunks of cookie dough. Georgie was clutching a glass of wine in one hand, while Sasha was contenting herself with ice cream. Best not to drink when she was this sad. “Reese is such a doll, though. Allergic to shellfish, poor dear, but I told her not to let Leo pick the restaurant.”
“What I’m wondering,” Sasha said carefully, teeth cracking into the frozen chunk of cookie dough, “is that half the time when I see you, you’re dressed like a 2008 goth in jeans and t-shirts.”
“Oh, honey,” Georgie said pityingly, patting her hand. “I used to spend two hours getting dressed each morning. I’m never doing that to myself again. You, however, clearly have never had nice clothing in your life. It’s written all over your face. People’ll walk all over you if you always look like you’re straight from a charity shop. We gotta buy you some self-confidence.”
“Thanks. I think.” On screen, Elle flourished and achieved her dreams. Sasha tried not to feel jealous. “It’s not really as if I had a lot of girly sleepovers as a kid…”
“Word,” Georgie said sympathetically. She patted Sasha’s hand again. “Jon was the same way, you know. I can’t count the number of times I’ve had to renovate that boy’s wardrobe. He has no idea how to dress to impress.”
“Do we have to talk about Jon right now,” Sasha groused. “He’s the last person I want to think about.”
“He means well,” Georgie soothed, as Elle Woods proudly proclaimed on television how she, yes, she, was a strong independent woman - who didn’t need a man! “It’s not his fault he’s stupid. He’s just so helpless on his own, you know, he needs girls like you and me to make sure he’s not wasting a decade fixating on obscure Bolivian religious practices or whatever.”
“Helpless? He’s a two hundred year old man.” Sasha spitefully grabbed the bottle of wine from the coffee table, pouring it into a spare glass and drinking it quickly. It probably cost thousands of pounds, but it just tasted like wine to her. “It’s not my job to make sure his little feelings aren’t hurt.”
“Of course not,” Georgie said, but Sasha had the sense she was being calmed instead of listened to. “But Jon’s...you know.”
“I don’t, actually.”
Georgie made an interpretive hand gesture. Sasha stared at her blankly.
“...I still don’t.”
Georgie sighed. “He’s delicate. Jonah babies him, honestly.” She patted Sasha’s hand for the third time, making her skin crawl. “Don’t worry, I won’t let him see you until you’re ready to forgive him. Every woman has the right to some time to herself after a guy fucks her over. You two’ll patch things up, right as rain.”
There was nothing Sasha wanted to say to that, nothing she wanted to think about, and she kept drinking her wine and watching the movie, out of lack of any other options.
That night, she drunkenly tipped into bed, so blasted that she slid immediately into sleep and did not dream. It was the first relief she’d had in what felt like a very long time.
It wasn’t Sasha’s job to fix Jonathan Sims.
It really, really wasn’t. It wasn’t her job to make him feel better, or forgive him, or save him from himself. If Martin wanted to waste his time and energy doing that, then god fucking speed, but Sasha had other priorities. She had been profoundly fucked over and had her trust abused by three different men lately, and she wasn’t going to be the one to patch things up.
Two of them she had no desire to patch things up with at all. Two of them she’d be perfectly happy if she never saw again. The last one...Sasha didn’t know what she felt. But that was nothing new.
That being said, as Sasha chewed her way through hangover medication and an acai bowl the next morning, Georgie’s inane chattering about tricking some celebrity or another into taking her to Hungary for authentic Hungarian food didn’t register nearly as loudly in Sasha’s mind as her words about Jonah and Jon.
Jonah babies Jon. That was what she had said. It...it was accurate, right? It had to be. Georgie had known Jonah and Jon for a hundred years, and Sasha had barely heard one authentic conversation between them. She’d known them for a year, and known Jonah’s true nature for maybe a few days. There was no way Sasha understood their relationship better than Georgie did. It just didn’t make sense.
Finally, she put her spoon down, cutting Georgie off in the middle of her ramble about the majesty of Hungarian food made by genuine Hungarian grandma hands. “What did you mean, ‘Jonah babies Jon’?”
Georgie blinked at her, clearly barely remembering the conversation, before recognition dawned. Then she shrugged, sipping her protein smoothie. Which may or may not be spiked. It seemed as if her solution to hangovers was to just not stop being drunk. “Oh, you know how those two are. Jon swans around the world doing whatever he wants, Jonah holds the fort down at home. That’s why Jon’s fun, you know.” She sighed nostalgically. “Romantic cruises to the Bahamas for two months, we tear up the Bahaman government and start a minor military coup, then we take a tour of the beaches. You haven’t lived until you’ve dug your toes into Bahaman sand.”
That was something Georgie said frequently: you haven’t lived until you’ve done X, Y, or Z. It seemed as if Georgie was very intent on living, and very intent on defining it in discretionary ways. To Sasha, living was simply the act of not being dead, but Georgie was almost fanatical about experiencing life.
“If he’s so much fun, then why did you break up?” Sasha asked, before she realized what she said. “I mean, it’s really none of my business, feel free not to answer that -”
But Georgie just laughed lightly. “That’s just how Jon and I work. We spend a few weeks together in bliss, and then we go our separate ways for six months or a year or whatever. Work’s always taking us different places, and seeing each other all day would make us hate each other. Some people work best when they’re not in each other’s pocket.” She took a long drag of the smoothie before speaking again. “Besides, he’ll always be second in my life to having fun. And I’ll always be second in his life to Jonah. It’s just how we work. It works for us!”
It seemed to. Last Sasha checked, Georgie and Jon seemed to be very amicable despite being exes. Lackadaisical, on-and-off, passionate yet going years without seeing each other - it was a relationship uniquely in the providence of workaholic immortals.
It wasn’t until Georgie had already waved goodbye, making Sasha promise not to spend all day on the couch again, that she realized that Georgie hadn’t quite answered her question.
An image flashed through Sasha’s mind - Jon’s face, as he dared to disagree with Jonah, and was utterly ground into the dust for it.
There was something more to this. Something that wasn’t obvious on the surface, something that was so well hidden maybe nobody even knew it was going on. Or maybe it was deeper than that, more insidious: maybe whatever was going on was so well-known and pervasive that it simply wasn’t spoken about. Not polite, not the kind of thing you say about your friends, not normal. Not in polite company. Not vocalized. Utterly taken for granted.
Sasha walked into the guest room, pulling out her phone from her bag and staring at its blank screen. Holding her breath, she hesitantly turned it on, staring at it blankly as it slowly booted up.
She shouldn’t be turning it on. She was perfectly aware of how, given a warrant, the police could track cell phone location, texts sent and received, everything. She could do it herself. The crushing weight of surveillance, the fear of being found and seen and rooted out, settled over her shoulders like an old, familiar friend. A comforting blanket to wrap herself up in at night: where, even if the fear was terrible and awful, at least it was familiar.
You could get used to anything, Sasha thought. Any behavior, any fears, any horrors or tragedies - anything could become normal, given enough time. A year. A hundred years. After two hundred years, maybe you wouldn’t even recognize it as happening at all.
Like a flood, the text messages poured in. Notifications chimed in a cacophony, as text after text after text popped up on her phone. Missed calls. Emails popped up, notifications from the doorbell camera, reminders from her fucking Duolingo...
Dizzily, Sasha scrolled through the texts. Lots from Tim, as expected, and a few from Martin, as expected. Some texts from her mother, which - which wasn’t expected. At all. Sasha hadn’t even known that she knew her number.
Sasha’s brain stuttered over the Spanish, having been years since she spoke it. Her brain also stuttered over the gratuitous misgendering, which was also blissfully novel yet just as uncomfortable and upsetting as ever. Translated, it was a slightly accusatory question about why the police had been calling them about her whereabouts. What had she done? Had she gotten in trouble?
No matter what you did, the text read, God will forgive you. Just call them back.
Sasha stared at the texts, brain buzzing. She felt sick. Forgive her? They’d forgive her? They thought she’d done it? They thought she was capable of -
Horribly, awfully, tears pricked at her eyes. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe you never really grew accustomed to pain, even if it was felt a thousand times. Maybe some pain you never acclimated to, never scarred over or calloused. Maybe sometimes the more you were hurt, the worse it hurt. The pain her parents gave her - how they cut off contact, the misgendering, the coldness - hurt just as badly at thirty six as it had at twenty six, at twenty, at fifteen, at nine. It had always hurt.
So stupid. Sasha deleted the text messages. She didn’t have time for this. She wasn’t a child. She was thirty six goddamn years old, that was way too old to still care about your parents. To still need them.
She clicked on Martin’s texts next. The first one had a timestamp before the murder, the rest afterwards.
Martin: where are you?? I found Tim (he tried to kill me w/an axe but we’re ok now) and were trying to get out of here. I explained everything to him. We’ll meet you in the archives.
Martin: Police are looking for you. I know you didn’t do it so call me back. Tim’s worried. Jon doesn’t seem that worried...
Martin: Shouldn’t text you anymore. Please be safe & careful.
Jesus. Jesus, she had been terrible to Martin. She was a rotten friend. Sasha hiccuped, rubbing at her eyes. She needed to get him a gift basket. Five. He was a freak, but he was her freak. Maybe.
Finally, almost holding her breath, she pressed on Tim’s messages. There were a lot of them - more than was safe, Sasha distantly registered. The first five were from the same time Martin had sent the second text. She guessed it was right after the police finished talking to them. He had called her slightly before - likely when they found the body - but there were also two texts from two am last night.
Tim: pick up your phone
Tim: pick up your phone are you okay im so sorry
Tim: baby please please pick up
Tim: we need to talk & im sorry & i hope ur safe
Tim: dont text me back
Then two texts from two am:
Tim: to warn you im drunk but im sorry (AND DRUNK) but in my defense im a shitty boyfriend. If you want to break up its fine but id like to make it work but i get if you cant because cops i guess. Bitch tonner wont stop bothering me make her stoppp
Tim: I love you and I wish that was enough.
Sasha rubbed at her eyes, exhausted. She wished it was enough too. She knew it wasn’t. Strongly, like burning, Sasha wished so desperately that she had never met Jonathan Sims. Maybe, in that world, things were okay. She and Tim were happy.
She scrolled through the rest of the notifications. Strangely, she even had two texts from Melanie.
Melanie: Hey, I heard what’s going on. I know you couldn’t have done it. A LOT of cops are bothering me - Hussein and Tonner have called like five times. I think you know them? For legal purposes I’ll say that you should turn yourself in or whatever.
Melanie: oh and Martin said to tell you that Mr. Bouchard’s been asking me a lot of questions about what im doing and my job situation - dunno y tho
That….probably wasn’t good.
No texts from Jon. She wouldn’t know what to do if he had. She doubted he knew her number, or how to work a phone. The last thing she could deal with emotionally right now was an apology. She didn’t know what to do about Tonner or Hussein or Melanie. Those were all problems she couldn’t fix right now.
Really, there was only one problem she could fix right now. She walked over to the door to the balcony, carefully stepping out onto the 20th story balcony. She carefully ejected her SIM card, snapped it in half, looked underneath her to make sure there were no passerby in the exclusive London neighborhood, and forced her fingers to release from the phone so she could watch it fall twenty stories onto the concrete.
She imagined a smash, a crack, but it didn’t make any sound at all. Sasha forced herself to step back inside, leaving the past behind her.
There was a lot Sasha had to force herself to do that day. Georgie owned a few laptops, but she hadn’t given Sasha permission to use any of them yet, and she didn’t want to intrude. Despite Sasha’s own...reservations about her personality, she really was being incredibly kind by letting her stay and trying to cheer her up. She did, however, have a great deal of antique books, and Sasha eagerly cracked open the first edition copies of fiction novels from the 19th century. Was that a first edition Pride & Prejudice? Oh, score!
She wasn’t hungry, but she forced herself to eat. Food tasted like ash in her mouth, but that always happened whenever she was upset. She forced herself to take a shower, impossibly intimidated by Georgie’s small army of hair care and hygiene products, and even cautiously let herself take a bubble bath with a bath bomb. It was...weirdly luxurious, but maybe not surprisingly. Georgie’s bathroom was like the Queen’s, and you could practically swim in the bathtub. It was intimidating and weird and uncomfortable, but Sasha forced herself to appreciate it. How many people got to take a shower in a stall with five different showerheads?
Halfway through the day the housekeeper came in, terrifying Sasha deeply, and she retreated to her guest bedroom to let the woman work. She inspected her newly painted toenails glumly, halfway through Pride & Prejudice, forcing herself not to think about how Jon could have been a background character in the novel. Wasn’t he in his twenties in this time period? Wasn’t that when he and Jonah Magnus had -
Sasha drank more wine, and put on another cooking program. She hadn’t watched telly all day, so technically she could tell Georgie that. Besides, it wasn’t as if there was anything productive to do. No work, which sucked when she was a workaholic. No computer to waste time on. No friends she could talk to without the police investigating her. She couldn’t go outside, again due to the aforementioned cop situation. Her life was her work, and her bosses had just framed her for murder.
Somewhat buzzed, Sasha stole several pieces of intricate stationary and wrote down everything Leitner had told her before he was murdered. It wasn’t nearly as much as she wanted, yet far more than she knew what to do with. Halfway through her notes deteriorated into a bizarre sort of mind map, lists of cases connected together and obscure monsters and figures pointing to each other. Salasea and his endless array of dangerous trinkets, mysterious yet lonely ship captains, Michael and his gently twisting deceit, Gerry Keay and his bizarre heroism, Leitner and his ruinous imprints, Agnes and her desolate fate, and the oft-mentioned yet barely understood man, whose name was whispered by shadowy figures entrenched in the supernatural world, Jonathan Sims…
Did he know? How often his shadow stained her statements? Did he care? Did he know how thoroughly he had ruined her life?
She scoured her memory for hints, writing down everything she could remember of his cameos in random statements. Of Leitner’s testimony, the immortal figure who so easily attained what Leitner and Mary Keay had spent their entire lives grasping for. Was there a hint to his true nature, his true allegiance?
In the corners of the cute stationary, Sasha doodled a small eye. She stared at it, and couldn’t help but fight the notion that it was staring back.
She scratched it out, feeling paranoid, not feeling paranoid enough.
A few hours later, Georgie came home, and Sasha fought the pathetically hopeful trepidation. When she heard the front door rattle she left her room, intending on welcoming Georgie back and proving that she hadn’t been watching telly all day, but she stopped short in the hallway when she heard the loud sound of voices. Specifically, the loud sound of Georgie’s still slightly unfamiliar voice, and the quieter tones of a voice that was far too familiar to her.
“ - if you’ll just let me talk to her, she’ll understand.”
“And she said that she’s not seeing you,” Georgie said firmly. Sasha held her breath, pressing herself up against the hallway wall. Next to her was a doorway that led to the living room, that led to a foyer. If she craned her head she could just barely see Georgie standing in the foyer, arguing with a figure holding a leather briefcase that made Sasha’s heart leap into her throat. “You really did screw her over, you know.”
“I know,” Jonathan Sims whined. “I want to apologize. It’s not my fault. Jonah got pushy again, you know how he is.”
“Ugh, tell me about it.” Georgie scoffed. “Did something happen between you two? Sasha was asking all sorts of weird questions.”
“Just Jonah being his usual insufferable self,” Jon said, so carelessly and casually that if Sasha hadn’t known better she would have believed him. “It probably alarmed her, seeing how that man really is. I’m sure she’s feeling very overwhelmed right now.”
“She really is, the poor dear,” Georgie said sympathetically. Sasha’s hands clenched into fists. “But you aren’t getting past this foyer, honey. I’m sure she’ll want to be friends again once Jonah gets the cops off her case.”
“Martin’s giving me a hard time,” Jon sulked. “Says this is all my fault that the dreadful little wolf girl is sniffing around. It’s not my fault. If my Archivist just let me explain, she’d see that it’s not my fault.”
“That Blackwood boy’s always giving you a hard time,” Georgie sniffed. “I don’t know why you’re so obsessed with him. He’s overly moralistic and doesn’t know how to have fun. You spend too much time with him.”
“Don’t tell me you’re jealous, Georgina Barker,” Jon teased. He stepped forward a little closer, and although Sasah couldn’t see his face she had the feeling he was smiling. “It’s a bad look on you.”
“Idiot,” Georgie said fondly, “everything’s a good look on me.” She stretched up on her tip-toes to kiss him on the cheek. “Ditch him and come party with me, darling, I’ll show you a wonderful time. Maybe after all of this nonsense blows over.”
“Judging from what I can make out of Jonah’s monologuing, we ought to get our parties in while we still can,” Jon said glumly. He opened his briefcase, passing a manila folder to Georgie. “Give her these. She’ll be getting hungry. Tell her that the top one is from work, and the second is from me.” He hesitated for a second. “You really think she’ll forgive me?”
“If it’s not your fault, then why do you need to be forgiven?”
Jon was silent for a long minute. Finally, he said, “I’ll talk to you later, Georgie. Love you.”
“Love you too,” Georgie said easily, casually, as if she had said it a thousand times, a million times. “Take care of yourself.”
She stood in the foyer after he left, arms folded, one delicately manicured finger tapping against her arm. She eventually turned around, poking her head into the living room.
“You can come out, darling, I don’t bite.”
Sasha guiltily stepped into the living room, crossing her arms defensively. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”
But Georgie just rolled her eyes. “Please. My best friends are Jonathan Sims and Jonah Magnus.” She looked thoughtful for a second. “Well. My oldest friends. Anyway, if you’re in the same house as one of those Beholding types you aren’t getting a private conversation. I’m super used to it.” She held out the manila folder, and Sasha cautiously stepped forward and took it from her.
“Beholding types?”
“Oh, you know, you and your lot,” Georgie said dismissively. “Can’t do anything about that annoying little megalomania the Eye gives you. Have fun with lunch, I have to freshen up. It takes ages to get the scent of Jon’s musty old books off me.”
But Sasha was already tuning her out, because in the manilla envelope there were two Statements. They thrummed under her fingers, charged with energy and power and fear, and Sasha could feel herself gripping them. The first one was a classic Magnus Institute Statement, just like she would have read at work, but the second was what looked like a photocopy of a piece of paper. Judging from the ornate script, it was old, and when Sasha’s eyes wandered to the date her eyes widened. July 21st, 1823.
She looked up, already frantically searching for a tape recorder, and immediately saw one sitting on the coffee table. She didn’t think twice about it, already sitting on the plush white couch and setting the papers out. Which one first - oh man, they were both so exciting - her fingers drifted to the one Jon gave her, and she picked it up. That one, then.
Sasha James pressed play on the tape deck, feeling a familiar thrill go through her at the gentle whirring. She cleared her throat.
“Statement of Sasha James, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, regarding a letter sent by Barnabas Bennet to Jonah Magnus. Statement begins.”
And, as Sasha’s blood ran cold, she began to read.
My dearest Jonah,
I hope you are well. It was an absolute pleasure to vacation at your estate this summer. I’ve never had such interesting conversations with a like-minded individual, and since returning to my own estate I have been sorely missing your company. You have introduced a great deal of brightness and acute interest to my life, and without you the luminescence of Heaven does not thrill me. How I wish you were around to thrill me again!
Do not concern yourself - I have maintained my studies. The library you loaned me is of great interest, and I have been spending many a quiet night bent over one of your occult tomes. I have never felt so enlightened. A world is opening up before us, Jonah, one of richness and wonder, and for the first time in many years I find myself excited to rise each morning. I thank our Heavenly Father each day that I was so fortunate as to cross your path. You must remind me to discuss with you the report by Smirke in detail - fascinating! Theoretical, of course, all theoretical - but the concept of classifying the devils that so bewitch man into fourteen unique taxonomies fascinates me. We must discuss it.
Jonah, I trust that this letter reaches you in private, and that you shall not betray my confidence by discussing it with anyone. I have a private grievance I wish to address with you. It is regarding your boy, the one kept so close in your confidence and trust.
I would never hasten to question any of your decisions, for I trust they are made with great deliberation and forethought. But I must question why you keep that boy so close to you. His air is strange and fey. While summering at your estate, I would frequently see him awake at late hours, pouring over some tome or report or another (I would swear that he reads better than I!). I know he’s somewhat of a project of yours, bringing him into Christianity and your charity, which will surely be rewarded etc etc, but I cannot shake my strange trepidation.
If I were to be quite honest, my fear of him.
He always asks questions. Disturbing and distressing questions. And when I deign to answer them, he acts as if he truly understands. Moreover, that he understands more than me - that he possesses some secret knowledge that only he has obtained. I catch him listening at doorways and around corners frequently, and no matter how many times I box him about the ears for it he will not cease. You encourage it, allowing this behavior. Even after I reported to you the pagan rituals which I am confident he is performing, you brush me off. You two are strangely close. I’m simply concerned for you, Jonah. Please heed my advice: that boy is trouble. I fear that he will bring you into trouble also. Do not allow this paganism to steer you away from the light of our heavenly Father. I understand that the occult is of great interest to all of us, discovering the secrets of the world and its many mysteries, but it is only an academic interest. I would never go so far as to partake of these devilish rituals myself, and you ought to dissuade yourself of such a notion also. Do not allow that John to lead you astray.
I wish you most well. I am encountering some trouble of my own - debts and such - but do not concern yourself with them. The situation is well-handled. I hope to write to you again soon.
Yours, faithfully,
Barnabas
...supplemental.
Jon. Why did you show me this?
Is this your definition of vulnerability? Of honesty? What, are you trying to justify your decisions to me? I get it, it’s disgusting. These people were disgusting to you. I can’t know how you feel, but I think I - my parents -
What I mean is, I can’t understand. I can’t imagine how hard this must have been. I understand how Jonah was the only one to… ‘get’ you or whatever. How he was the only person to see how brilliant you are, how much you have to give.
But, Jon - I don’t think Jonah thought any better of you than Barnabas did. He was just better at hiding it. I don’t know, I didn’t know him and I still don’t know him - but you get that the way he talked to you back then wasn’t right, right? You get that it was fucked up, right?
I don’t know. I don’t think you get that. I don’t think anybody does. Georgie’s too close to it, too used to you and Jonah’s ‘quirks’ or whatever. I...don’t know anything Martin thinks, but I feel as if you’d be pretty invested in keeping this from him. But I’m close enough to you to see it, and I’m far enough away from this that I understand. Something’s really fucked up about this situation. I’m worried I’m the only person who sees it. I hate being that person, the person who Sees it all, who knows it all, but is powerless to do anything about it. You understand, right? You understand how much this is hurting me?
I’m not sure you do. If you’re showing me this, trying to show me how hard you had it, how misunderstood you were, just so I forgive you...I don’t. And it’s manipulative, so cut it out. I’m not sure if you’re consciously doing that, I really don’t think you’re emotionally intelligent enough.
But you aren’t dumb, Jon. I know it’s a defence mechanism or whatever to pretend that you are, to act childish, but you aren’t.
Ugh, listen to me. I sound like Martin. Disgusting. I don’t give a shit about this, I’m not your therapist. But you keep on making your problems my problems, and I’m not tolerating that. We’ll talk when I’m not fucking wanted for murder for something you were complicit in.
Get your act together. I don’t forgive you. Statement fucking ends.
As if Sasha’s life wasn’t hard enough, Georgie wanted to go dancing.
“I am literally wanted by the police.”
“The nightclub’s so dark, nobody’ll even see your face,” Georgie promised.
“Shouldn’t I be spending my time working on my conspiracy theory board?”
“Honey, no offence, that thing is so tacky.”
“I hate clubbing.”
“You’ll like the way I do it!”
“I really don’t want to -”
“Tough nuts.”
So, of course, that’s how Sasha ended up shoved into a tight dress, heels, and makeup, pushed into a taxi, and quickly deposited in front of a warehouse looking building. There was a long line out the door, of women with straightened hair dressed somehow identically, yet way worse, than Sasha, all looking very cold. Georgie looped her arm through Sasha’s, white teeth flashing as she grinned widely, and escorted them both straight through the doors and past security.
She, it seemed, was a known quantity. Sasha, who had spent the last year working in a mill to feed evil psychic vampires and the ten years before that locked in academia, which was basically the same thing, was not a known quantity to any nightclub. She had not been clubbing since uni, which was approximately five lifetimes ago.
“I’m still not sure this is a good idea,” Sasha said into Georgie’s ear as they transitioned from the furiously cold February air into the swelteringly hot club. It was dim and smoky, the noise overwhelmingly grating at her ears. After so long in a quiet office, in a silent flat, she could barely handle it.
Georgie said something to her.
“What?” Sasha yelled. “Georgie, I don’t want to be here!”
Georgie frowned at her, and unlinked their arms so she could reach up on her tiptoes and clasp Sasha on the shoulders. “You have been accused of murder! You just split with your boyfriend because of clown trauma! You haven’t had fun in years! You deserve this, queen!”
You know...maybe she did.
Georgie pressed a drink into her hands, mysteriously procured from somewhere, and without thinking too hard about it Sasha downed it in one gulp. Georgie whooped, clapping her on the back, and directed her towards the bar. She flashed her platinum credit card at the bartender, and suddenly Sasha was MVP of the night.
You know, Sasha thought dizzily as she was given a toxic blue drink and pushed onto the dance floor, maybe she did deserve this. Didn’t she deserve to have fun? After the way things ended with Tim, couldn’t she just act like a normal girl and go clubbing with her friends to dance away the pain? She was almost forty, way too old for this, but maybe she could forget for a little bit. She had never had the opportunity as a teenager, not even as a young adult. Couldn’t she do this, before she died?
Maybe women closer to forty than thirty dealt with this with - with book clubs, with sisterhood, whatever. Maybe women closer to forty than thirty were married, had kids of their own. But Sasha was just Sasha, stuck in a literal dead-end job, going nowhere good, and this was all she would ever have.
Maybe Georgie was right. Why not live, before she died? Everybody on earth died - everybody, that is, except for a small group of people who were willing to sell their soul for the privilege. At least maybe this way she could have whatever joy she could fit into her life before all opportunity was lost, and she was lost.
A man sidled up to her, asking for a dance, and she evaded him. But then there was another one, and another one, and Sasha found herself fleeing back to the bar and ordering another drink. Too soon. Way too soon. She found herself digging in her borrowed purse, searching for her phone, wanting to call Tim or talk to him or ask him if they really were broken up so she could have rebound sex with random dudes in bars, but the purse was empty of both a phone and a wallet. That’s right - she had destroyed it. Because the cops were after her.
Next to her, out of the corner of her eye, a man sat down at a barstool. He said something to the bartender and leaned towards her, mouth spilling something obscured by the crush and heat and sound of the club. He seemed to be asking if he could buy her a drink. Sasha shook her head dizzily, confused and lost. Then he leaned in closer, and Sasha could smell the alcohol on his breath.
“Are you sure? I’d like to dance with you!”
Sasha shook her head no again, frantically.
“Aw, come on -”
Then, as if by magic, Georgie was at her elbow. Unintimidating, not more than one hundred and seventy centimeters, with teased hair and sharp black lipstick and eyeliner, she raised an eyebrow at the guy. But there must have been something in her eyes, or a lack of something, because the guy rapidly slipped off the barstool and melted into the crowd, leaving the drink the bartender slid onto the counter behind.
As if she had planned it, Georgie easily stole the drink and knocked it back. She tugged Sasha down, yelling into her ear. “Come with me, darling, let’s check out where the real party is.”
Without taking no for an answer, Georgie grabbed Sasha’s hand and tugged her through the outskirts of the crowd, ducking and weaving between small clusters of people and women dancing the night away. Sasha’s vision swam, details and faces lost in the endless ripple of flashing lights and sound, until all she felt was Georgie’s cool hand in hers, and it wasn’t until they emerged from the choppy sea of people into a small hallway off the main room that she felt like she could breathe. Sasha’s head swam with movement and smoke, and she was barely cognizant that they were in a hallway for a bathroom or something.
But Georgie walked confidently past the bathrooms, into what appeared to be a storage closet. She confidently opened it, halting at the door frame to glance backwards at Sasha. A smile quirked at her bow lips.
“You coming?”
Sasha, slightly intoxicated though she was, couldn’t fight the skepticism. “This is where the real party is? A supply closet?”
“Oh, my dear Archivist,” Georgie said, smirking slightly. “The world is full of far more delights than you could understand. Follow me, and stay close.”
Then Georgie stepped forward, disappearing into the closet, and as little as Sasha wanted to step inside more dubiously supernatural hallways she wanted to be left alone in this club even less, and she ducked after Georgie into the unknown.
The unknown, as it turned out, was another club.
Or, more accurately, a pub. It was a nice pub too, all smoky yellow lights and burnished wood booths. The booths were upholstered in soft and cushy looking brown leather, and the sound where nowhere above a quiet murmur. It didn’t seem to be abandoned, the shadows at some booths deeper than others, but for the life of her Sasha couldn’t puzzle out the faces or figures of anybody at these shadowy corners. There was a single bartender, wiping a grimy glass over and over. He nodded at Georgie when he walked in, and Sasha was forced to wonder how many dubiously physical supernatural bars and hang-outs existed in random back rooms of mundane stores. Were these things just everywhere? Or were there only a few, and so long as you had the right key any door could be an entrance? It was just Sasha’s intuition, but she felt as if it was the latter.
What would, could Georgie open up for her? What power, what majesty? What world of power and control could Jon give her, that Jon was trying to hard to give her that she kept refusing? Nobody was telling her the cost. Nobody was letting her make a decision. She was being swept up in the wake of giants, and Sasha was just trying to keep her head above water.
Georgie was still walking confidently down the aisles, and Sasha stumbled trying to keep up. Finally, she came to a stop in a back corner, utterly secluded with a booth that stretched the entire corner, large enough for seven or more people. Georgie turned to Sasha, smiling broadly, and Sasha tried not to feel intimidated.
“Honey, these are my friends. Girls, this is my new roommate, Sasha James!”
With a flourish, she made a little tah-dah motion, and the smoky yellow lamp above the table flickered on.
The table was crowded with women, or women appearing people. Absolutely none of them were familiar. No - in the corner, there was one person who was familiar. Michael, blonde hair hurting her eyes in curly ringlets, hands in his coat pockets. He smiled crookedly at her, jarring her adrift.
“Uh,” Sasha said, confused. Who were these people? “Hello?”
A short East Asian woman in a white tank top and black jeans scowled from where she was slouching in her seat. “One of those Beholding patsies? Please, Georgie, they’re so insufferable.”
“I like this one,” Georgie said cheerfully. She slid into an empty seat, and Sasha cautiously sat next to her. “Play nice, everyone.”
“You’re such a grouch, Jude,” a woman said, leaning forward and looking interestedly at Sasha. Her eyes were dark and big, her head cocked, giving her an almost insectoid air. “It’s a pleasure to meet you in person finally, Archivist. I’ve heard so much about you. You’re really making waves in our little community.”
“Patsy Archivist,” a tall and burly white woman with cascading brown hair said shortly, taking long gulps of a pint. “What’s impressive about that?”
“I’m impressed with anyone who puts up with Sims and Magnus long enough,” the insectish woman said. “No offence, Georgie.”
“Oh, they’re insufferable,” Georgie said cheerfully. “Have you heard how those two like to socialize? They go to galas. With those awful little Fairchilds and Lukases and whatever. It’s just tragic.”
“Word,” the insect woman said, raising her glass. The rim seemed to be coated in cobwebs, making Sasha feel vaguely ill. “Much rather have a pint at a nice little pub with friends. But we haven’t introduced ourselves, have we? My name’s Annabelle Cane. I’m sure you’ve heard of me in all those little stories you like.”
Anabelle Cane. Sasha swallowed. “Yeah, I’ve heard.”
“A proxy Archivist she may be,” Michael said serenely, “but perhaps our most successful yet. She’s already coming along so much further than Gertrude ever did.” He winked bizarrely at Sasha. “Michael, but you already know that. They and them, if you please.”
Oh. Sasha blinked at them. “Thanks for...saving my life back there. And Tim’s and Martin’s.”
“My pleasure,” Michael said affably. “You’re the most fun I’ve had in awhile. Always nice to have the Eye owe me a favor.”
“They’re just mad they didn’t get to kill Gertrude,” the brunette said evenly. “Julia Montauk. You should know me too, I think. Is it true you killed someone?”
“I definitely didn’t,” Sasha said heatedly. “It was a set-up.”
“Relax, we’re all killers here,” the woman in a tank top said. She scowled at Sasha. “Jude Perry. What the fuck do those old money ponces think they’re doing, installing another patsy Archivist this late in the game? I would have thought that they learned their lesson after that bitch Gertrude.”
“Archivists are quite slow learners,” a woman piped up. She sat in the corner, strangely oddly. Her skin was shiny and strange in the dim light, almost plasticish, and her dark eyes hadn’t moved from Sasha’s face since she walked in. “Nikola. A pleasure, Archivist.”
“Are you guys all…” Sasha trailed off uncomfortably. “You know?”
“Serial killers?” Julia Mauntauk asked flatly.
“Inhuman monstrosities of plastic and flesh?” Nikola inquired.
“Daughters of fear entities that control our every action?” Annabelle said.
“Embodiments of unknown concepts made sentient, forced into a shape that cannot suit them, locked in flesh and fractal prisons, always screaming in endless turmoil, unable to understand the horrors of the concepts of ourselves, always searching for the sweet release of death that can never quite be obtained, because that which does not live can never die?” Michael said serenely.
“Assholes?” Jude Perry said flatly.
“The sexiest Avatars around?” Georgie asked.
How did Sasha’s life devolve to this point.
“...yeah,” Sasha said. “Hey, where can I get more drinks?”
Unsurprisingly enough, the drinks came very fast. Service was excellent when you hung out with eldritch women, Sasha supposed.
The conversion flew thick and fast after that. In Sasha’s experience, joining a new group of established friends meant being ignored for favor of pre-existing dynamics. It was always uncomfortable, and no small part of why she just didn’t join new groups. Tim had never had that problem - he had a loud and persistent personality, the kind that made you pay attention to him. He dominated any room he entered, by force if necessary. It always seemed exhausting to Sasha, but Tim didn’t really seem to have anymore real friends than she did lately. His personality was like an ocean, overwhelming and everywhere, but when his mood turned sour it was just as intense. Gulfs of pleasure, intense pain - it seemed exhausting, to feel so deeply. God knows Sasha didn’t.
But today, in this group, she seemed to be novel. Maybe new fear avatars were a rare enough thing, or at least ones with Georgie’s seal of approval. They aimed a barrage of questions at her, and Sasha did her best to keep up with each one.
How did Sasha know Georgie? Mostly through a mutual enemy. Oh, fuckin’ Sims, right - you guys friends? No, I hate him. You guys fucking? Ew. Right, right, Sims is a giant prude - actually I heard that he doesn’t really - no, Jon decided a while back he doesn’t do that, and we all respect his decision - ew, though, nobody wants to imagine that. So why are you two friends? We’re roommates, mostly, I’m kinda on the run from the cops. Who’d you kill? Nobody. Who’d that old fucker Bouchard kill? Jurgen Leitner, mostly.
“Cheers to that!” Julia said abruptly, raising her glass. “Hate that fucker.”
“Good riddance to bad rubbish,” Annabelle said, downing her own drink and what seemed like an improbable quantity of spiders. She leaned over the table to where Sasha had hastily been stuffed in, beetle-black eyes gleaming. “But really. What are you doing here?”
“As I said,” Sasha said uncomfortably, “I got framed for murder -”
But Annabelle just waved her hand. “No, no, we know that. I’m asking what are you doing here? With people like us, in a place like us? You’re just a sexy librarian. Your highest goal in life was owning your own cottage house one day. How’d you get wrapped up in the tangled web of our world?”
Sasha’s mouth ran dry, her head spinning in a way that didn’t really seem to have anything to do with the alcohol. How had she ended up like this? Who was to blame?”
“Jonathan Sims,” Sasha said dizzily. “He -”
“Didn’t know you Beholding types were in the process of lying to yourselves,” Annabelle said, casually yet brutally. “No, really.”
Sasha opened her mouth, then closed it. Finally, she said, “I guess I just asked all the wrong questions.”
It was a pretty way of dressing up the real answer: that Sasha didn’t know.
Maybe her thoughts were obvious, because Georgie cooed sympathetically and slung an arm around her shoulders. “Cheer up, honey, it’s not so bad. Not everything happens for a reason. Sometimes it’s just your own rotten luck.”
“Speak for yourself,” Jude called, lifting her glass. “I love my fucking life. It’s hookers, coke, and blow from here to Scotland. The life of a woman with power’s a thousand times better than the life of a woman without, James.”
“What is with you people and hedonism,” Sasha muttered.
“Why not?” Nikola asked, tilting her head strangely. “Life’s so short when it’s this long. It’s just bread and circuses, Archivist. We all need...entertainment.”
“Humans are always trying to make sense of it all,” Michael said arily. They were digging their fingers into the table, scoring long grooves in it. “When you know there’s no meaning, no purpose, then everything else just...falls away.”
Sasha didn’t know if she believed that, but she bit her tongue. Instead, she said, “What about those Avatars like Magnus or Raynor? They seem really...driven.”
Georgie giggled, light and airy, and leaned in. “That’s because they don’t know.”
She shouldn’t even ask. She shouldn’t - “Know what?”
Georgie smiled, sharp and wicked. “That there’s no point.”
And that was all she would say on that for the night: conversation after that devolved into parties, restaurants, drugs, and conquests. Maybe the women were right, in their own clearly demented way: that without death there was no meaning, when when there was no meaning only pleasure held any significance. If there was no afterlife, no reward or punishment - which Sasha didn’t believe, but they seemed to - then there was no reason not to do what you wanted. To have fun. To take revenge.
If all Georgie wanted was to have fun, and if all Jon wanted was revenge, then what did Jonah Magnus want? Sasha didn’t know. She had the feeling that if she didn’t figure it out, she wasn’t going to live much longer.
Why had Jonah Magnus done this to her? What was the point of framing her for murder? She couldn’t do her job like this. What’s the point?
Half-drunk, head spinning, she found herself vocalizing this. Somehow, Annabelle Cane had ended up sitting next to her, letting spiders run along her slightly too long and too jointed fingers. Annabelle Cane just smiled at her, jaw slightly slacking open to expose teeth.
“Maybe it’s just to fuck with you,” Annabelle posited. “Why not? Do you think he has another reason?”
“I don’t know,” Sasha groaned. “I don’t know anything. Everything’s confusing and terrible. I could never understand those psychopaths.”
“You won’t make it very far in this line of work if you never ask why,” Annabelle scolded. She paused a second, spider running thoughtfully across her eyeball. “But too many questions damns you just as effectively, I suppose. Hm. Jonah’s quite good, isn’t he.”
“Why me,” Sasha groaned. “Everyone’s trying to keep shit from me, it fuckin’ - it fuckin’ sucks, man. It sucks. Nobody would tell me what’s going on, but I don’t think anybody knows what’s going on. Not even Jonah, or Jon, or - or anyone. Nobody but me.”
Annabelle blinked at her, somewhat curiously, before leaning in. Her perfume lingered in the air, a heavy rosy scent. “Do you know something that Jonah doesn’t?”
“Yeah,” Sasha slurred, world fading in and out. “Jonah doesn’t know that Jon -”
Then the world faded into black, and Sasha fell asleep.
If she had felt too old for this at the nightclub, she definitely felt too old for this hangover. Sasha spent twenty minutes crouched over a toilet bowl, reluctantly shoved the Eggs Benedict in her mouth that Georgie insisted was a hangover cure, somehow, and refused the Bloody Mary that Georgie also insisted was a hangover cure that her Mum used to feed her. The thought of Georgie’s Mum filled Sasha with a deep fear, incapable of imagining somebody who was both likely born in the 1800s and who had raised a hellion like Georgie.
When Sasha mumbled this to Georgie, she didn’t look offended. She just smiled, strangely fond. “Oh, none of this is my Mum’s fault. She was a darling, her and my Da. My childhood was positively idyllic. All things considered, you know.”
Yes, Sasha thought, struggling to imagine 1910s London in her mind, idyllic. She took another look at Georgie, squinting slightly as her head throbbed. She definitely seemed younger physically than Jon, but Jon had a particular way of carrying age about him that had nothing to do with his appearance. “When did you stop aging?”
“I forget, honestly,” Georgie said airly, sipping her own bloody mary. For some reason, Sasha didn’t believe her. “It always takes a while to notice, you know. I suppose, logically, it would be about when I died the first time.”
That, more than anything, alarmed Sasha. “I thought you couldn’t die.”
“Not permanently,” Georgie said, as if this was somehow obvious. “Eat your eggs, they’ll get cold.” Sasha frantically shoved eggs in her mouth, desperate for the story. But Georgie just sighed and propped her chin on her hand, eyes distant. “You know how it is. Small town girl, grew up in North Birmingham, Alabama - back when it was just a tiny little thing, you know. I wanted to be a star. I always did. Scared of dyin’ in the dirt. If I was gonna die young, I wanted to do it where everybody knew my name. So long as they remember you, it’s no kind of death at all, really.” She sighed, lost in memory. “I could sing so good...so I went to Harlem, ‘cause all my friends and I always had dreams of going to Harlem and making it big singing in the jazz clubs. They didn’t get so far, staying at home with their babies, but I did. Wasn’t really made for babies and such, I think.” Something strange emerged in her words, the last vestiges of a Southern accent. “I was pretty, and I could sing, and I took to the spotlight like a duck to water. It was tough, but man - if it ain’t tough, it ain’t worth it. I worked so hard. Like I was working myself to death, almost.”
She trailed off, birds softly trilling outside, and Sasha was silent.
Quietly, Georgie began speaking again. “Got into some trouble. You know how it is. I spent dozens of years wondering if it was my fault, if there was something I coulda done differently, zig instead of zag...but now, I don’t think so. Just my own rotten luck, you know. Put my trust in the wrong people. Had the wrong sentence whispered into my ear.” She shrugged listlessly. “Couldn’t handle the truth. Just another girl who couldn’t handle the limelight, that was what they said. But I was set up to fail. All those jazz clubs were ganger run, you couldn’t avoid it. Every girl in that golden age fell prey to those men, same as I did. I just wanted to feel again. Tried everything once, just to feel something.” She sighed, taking another drink. “Got shot. Got back up. I remember it, clear as day. Must have been 1923. I scrubbed the blood out of my show dress and went back on stage that night, cuz you can’t get a rep as a flake. They said, that day...that day was my best performance.”
She trailed off, Sasha finally alert. She wanted more details, almost desperately, but she kept her mouth shut. She didn’t want to risk putting the whammy on her host, even if she wasn’t sure that she could. If Georgie was being purposefully vague...well, Sasha wasn’t entitled to her pain.
Instead, she said, “I bet you were good.”
Georgie smiled at her wanly, eyes far away. “I was the best.”
They sat in silence for a little while, eating their food, Sasha’s head ringing and mind buzzing. What about this picture was she not understanding? What was so important that she was missing?
Finally, Sasha carefully floated, “I bet you must have met Jon soon after.”
Georgie looked up from her bloody mary, surprised. “Oh, yes. Just a few months after. He must have caught the word on the wind, you know, of that singing girl who got back up after getting shot in the lungs.” She sighed, propping her chin on her hand again. “Saw him in the front row of my club. He was so handsome, and so finely dressed. But there had been something strange in his eyes, you know? Like little marbles, reflecting the lamps. He caught up to me afterwards, and I figured he was just another fan to squeeze dry, but he told me in his funny little accent I’d never heard before that he could help me.” She swallowed, looking away. “That he could help me understand what was happening to me. Why I was having those strange dreams, seeing those strange tendrils. I guess he was right. After I met him, I understood it all. Things moved fast after that.” She smiled weakly at Sasha. “I suppose you know the rest.”
She really didn’t, but Sasha understood the dismissal for what it was. “Yeah. Thanks for telling me all of that.”
“It’s no secret,” Georgie said dismissively. She smiled cunningly. “A hundred years later almost exactly, and what I did to those gangsters was still my finest work. They say that if you pass by an old building on St. Nicholas Avenue, you can still hear the screams. Anyway, I have a meeting with my land development company in an hour, must run, ta!”
On that distressing note Georgie swanned out the door, and Sasha was left alone with nothing but a stack of conspiracy theories, an opulent flat, and bad memories.
Time seemed to move quickly, yet sluggishly, after that. After another day of writing down literally every Statement she could remember off the top of her head and trying to fit them into the weird and seemingly kind of arbitrary categories that Leitner had given her, she had hit a roadblock. She couldn’t remember any more Statements, she didn’t have access to them, and the ones she did remember she either already sorted or couldn’t dredge up enough memory of them to sort them in a satisfactory way. Either that, or the Statement itself was just incomprehensible - Sasha still didn’t know what the fuck was going on with Tessa’s problem. She tended to have a better memory of the ones that seemingly mentioned the Avatars in the background, just because it had been so startling to actually meet them - and a few even mentioned Jon, usually in context of Salasea or any Eye Statement.
When Georgie came home that night, they watched another movie and they both studiously avoided mentioning anything supernatural. Best not to take work home with you, even if Sasha had never quite been good at that.
The next day Sasha did what she should have done in the first place, and hacked into the Magnus Institute server.
It was seriously, comically easy. Sasha had installed a backdoor connection to the desktop of her work computer from her laptop ages ago, and all she had to do was borrow one of Georgie’s laptops and redownload the program. With an easy virtual desktop she was already in. It was somehow satisfying to see all of her work programs pop up on the borrowed laptop, and it was almost a relief to access the Archive drive that connected all of their computers. More importantly, where they all put their research follow-ups and the spreadsheet that documented the debunked, uncertain, and verified statements. It had gotten to the point where if the statement refused to record on the computer they automatically put it on verified, but what Sasha really wanted from that spreadsheet was the one sentence description they had all put for each Statement.
From there, it was much easier. Sasha, sick of the disorganized conspiracy theorist aesthetic, made her own spreadsheet and began categorizing the verified Statements that way. Much more reliable than working from memory.
If only she could actually access the Statements...Sasha’s life would be so much easier if everything could be digitized. The debunked ones were typed up, filed, and recorded, but the verified ones only existed on paper. Couldn’t be typed up, couldn’t be recorded. It was so stupid.
Sasha checked the clock. Eleven am on a Wednesday. They were definitely all still working. Maybe…
It was an invasion of privacy. Did she actually care about that? No. Was she worried about apparently being locked into an employment contract with an...entity of some sort that preyed on invasions of privacy? No, although she felt like she should. Was she concerned that Jon and Jonah were trying to turn into her a conduit of this entity’s power into the world, probably gradually turning her, if not evil, at least into a giant dick? Somewhat.
Words echoed through her mind, and Sasha’s fingers halted over the keyboard. Her powers manifesting differently than Jon’s...her unique skill with hacking…
Well, that was just kind of offensive. Sasha had worked hard for her skills. They weren’t given to her by Jon’s weird god. Also - seriously, a god? It was just a malevolent eldritch entity living in a separate dimension that encroached tendrils into Sasha’s life. There was nothing divine about it. That was just offensive. Sasha was a good feminist, transgender Catholic on the run from the law and didn’t worship false idols.
It was only then that Sasha noticed a folder on the drive that she hadn’t created. It was labelled ‘For the Archivist’. Despite herself, she clicked on it.
It held a few pdfs. Sasha clicked on one curiously, and saw that they were photocopies of statements. No - of Statements. She was already recognizing this one as one of those spider ones. She quickly printed them all out, conscientious of how easily supernatural files corrupted, and quickly exited the drive and the virtual desktop.
It wasn’t until Sasha was already in the kitchen and pulling down a bottle of Jack that she realized what she was doing. She sighed, replaced it, and fetched herself some sparkling water instead. She drank it slowly as she returned to her laptop and logged remotely into the police database, which she already had a backdoor into.
It occurred to Sasha, perhaps belatedly, that if the police found her laptop and the incredible variety of highly illegal programs meant explicitly for accessing secure servers she was probably triple going to jail. This time, for something she had actually did.
All of the hacking had never felt illegal. It had just felt...well, fun and necessary. It had never been about whether or not she should, it had been about if she could.
Was that how it had started for Jon? Collecting household secrets because he had to, so secure the money and influence he desperately needed, because he could, because it was fun?
Whatever. Sasha shook herself. She could have her moral crisis after she was no longer on the run from the cops for murder. This wasn’t the time to be squeamish about something that wasn’t hurting anybody. She knew, as Jon probably did, that just because something was illegal didn’t make it wrong.
It was easy to log onto the police database and check out her own open case. She frequently checked out open homicide cases for fun, but it somehow hit a little different when it was her they were talking about. Incident, Senior Citizen, Offence: First Degree Murder, Location of Arrest: N/A, yeah, yeah, yeah…
One victim, a John Doe. Foul play was suspected...yes that’d be the gunshot wound. No witnesses. Reporting officer’s narrative...Elias Bouchard and Jonathan Sims the Fifth had walked into Head Archivist Sasha James’ office to discuss work with her when they found the body. Both were shocked and called the police...gun found at the scene had her fingerprints and the ballistics matched...suspect still at large. Friends and family had been contacted, everyone denied knowledge of where she was. Suspect had a noted history of mental illness...great…
The officers dispatched had been Alice Tonner and Basira Hussein. Sasha found that strange: Basira had history with one of the witnesses and the suspect, wouldn’t it be unprofessional to send her out?
There couldn’t be that many sectioned officers, Sasha reasoned. Even if the incident hadn’t officially been sectioned, because the police report still existed, as a general rule if something happened at the Magnus Institute it was sectioned until proven otherwise. Even if the murder itself was seemingly mundane.
Out of curiosity, she searched up Detective Tonner’s records. Been on the force for a long time, worked her way up the ranks. Very, very few cases and incident reports for a detective who had been on the force as long as she had. Sectioned, obviously, but even Basira had more official cases than she did. When Sasha clicked on the incident reports, they were extremely spotty and strange. Obvious details were omitted or censored.
Something cold began to creep down Sasha’s spine. She found the arrest records of the latest four people with official records of Detective Tonner arresting them.
Almost all of them had entered custody with bruises, cuts, and in one case a broken limb. They all had records down as ‘resisting arrest’. Sasha felt sick.
There was one case that stopped strangely short. A clear perp, a rapist but one with little evidence, who Tonner had quickly caught. That was where the case ended: the report that Tonner had found his hiding spot, but no arrest, no trial, no prison sentence. When Sasha investigated the perp, she found that he had unceremoniously vanished shortly after Tonner had reported that she had found his hiding spot. A month later, a death certificate had been filed.
Sasha stared at the death certificate, nauseated. This was who she was dealing with. A vigilante, some batshit pig who had obviously decided that the law was best taken into her own hands. Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy, but...if anybody looked at Sasha’s case on paper, they’d say the same thing.
And that was just the cases on record. It was the only obvious instance Sasha could see of Tonner having offed someone just because she felt like it, but cops were good at covering shit like that up. How many other arrest records had fallen in the cracks? How many other dead perps that nobody gave a shit about? How many sectioned cases?
God, Sasha was fucked.
She begged off hanging out with Georgie that night, instead staying in bed with the covers pulled tight over her head as if that could ever protect her. Why was Jonah doing this to her? What did he have to gain? If he wanted her to die a mysterious death in the bottom of a ditch, why wasn’t he man enough to do it himself?
Tonner was going to murder her, Sasha thought hysterically, and she was going to pat herself on the back for keeping another monster off the streets.
And Jon knew. The fucking hypocrite. He wasn’t going to help her. Nobody was. But, god, she was so alone…
The next morning, as if she knew, Georgie slipped Sasha a burner phone over the breakfast table as they both robotically ate quiches.
“It should be untraceable, but just know that anybody you call you’re putting at serious risk,” Georgie warned, before her expression softened. “This’ll all be over soon, honey. I promise.”
“Did Jonah tell you that?” Sasha asked bitterly.
“Nah. I just know those two.” Georgie delicately ate a forkful of quiche. “They get bored of terrorizing humans pretty quickly. Now, Michael’s a different story. They’ll terrorize someone for decades. I’ve seen them do it!”
“Great,” Sasha said.
It seemed to be at this point that Georgie realized she was actually making Sasha feel much worse, because a slightly panicked expression crossed her face and she quickly reached out to pat Sasha on the hand. “But I’m sure they won’t do that to you,” Georgie said quickly. “They love you! Jon especially. Jonah’s just on another of his little power trips right now, he’ll get over it. And Jon, like, feels really bad about this whole thing. He’s been super annoying about it, actually -”
“See,” Sasha said, standing up to clear away her dishes, “I would rather handle an enemy who obviously wants to kill me than a friend whose good side I always have to be careful to stay on, who I can’t afford to ever make mad. I guess that’s the only difference left between me and you people.”
She angrily put her dishes in the sink, where the housekeeper would do them, and stalked to what was rapidly becoming her room, slamming the door.
Flopping down on the bed, she stared at the burner phone. Tim wouldn’t be at work yet. They could talk. They could -
Do what? Get back together? Split up? Could he explain, beg for her forgiveness? Did she have to apologize too? Sasha didn’t understand.
That was rare for her. She understood a lot of things, or at least she thought she did. Maybe she had been lying to herself, about everything: that her and Tim were a good idea, that Martin was sketchy, that Jon was evil, that Jon was kind, that Georgie just wanted to help her, that there was nothing that Jonah Magnus would do to her, that she was safe and human and a good person.
God, her capacity for self-delusion was ridiculous. But maybe people needed a little bit of self-delusion to survive. Nobody could live in complete honesty, in full sight of their flaws and shortcomings. You could burn away, living like that.
No. No time or space for fear. Sasha wasn’t afraid of anything. If she kept telling herself that, maybe it would be true. She desperately punched in a number that she didn’t remember memorizing, holding the phone desperately to her ear, her one connection to humanity.
It rung, and rung, and one, and Sasha’s heart thumped in her chest.
Finally, the ringing stopped, and a slightly sleepy voice punctuated the dead air. “Hello?”
“Tim, it’s me,” Sasha burst out, everything she wanted to say to him rushing through her throat and choking her, and she burst into tears.
Distantly, through the sound of her crying, she could hear Tim on the other side losing his shit, and eventually wrangling himself to calmness.
It was almost funny, how they could work each other up like that. Eventually, by the time Sasha had managed to wrangle her own crying, Tim had calmed himself down enough that he was able to clumsily try to cheer her up.
“We’re all fine. Everyone’s perfectly safe. Martin’s gotten, uh, even more annoying since you left, and we’ve technically hired Melanie, which is - not good but it’s funny? Are you still crying? Please don’t still be crying.”
“I’m fine,” Sasha hiccuped. She rubbed at her red eyes. God, she’d missed him. “Tim, what happened?”
The line was silent for a while. Finally, he said, “Is this line secure?”
“Uh - probably? I mean -” Sasha quickly checked herself. She didn’t want to mention Georgie. The less he knew the better. “ - it’s a burner, if that’s what you’re asking, and I’m not the one who bought it.”
“Where are you living?” Tim asked harshly. “Are you homeless? You have to come stay with me, I can -”
“You mean the first place Tonner will look?” Sasha shot back. “No. I’m safe, I’m dry, things are fine. That’s all you need to know.” She softened her voice. “I promise, if it was safe I’d tell you more. I want to see you again. Tim, I - I’m really sorry.”
Tim laughed hoarsely, without humor. “Shouldn’t it be me saying that? I’m the one who thought you were a monster.”
“...yeah, that one’s on you.” Sasha sighed miserably, lying down on her bed, wishing Tim was next to her. “I am, though. A monster, I mean. Tim, I - I’m definitely not entirely human anymore.”
“God, Sash, that’s the least of our problems right now,” Tim said, laughing slightly again. “Can you just tell me what happened? I know you didn’t fucking do it. That dick Bouchard keeps playing dumb and his shitlead lackey keeps on avoiding the Archives. I bet Sims killed that old man, right? He totally did. Martin keeps on saying that his precious Jon wouldn’t let you take the fall for something he did, but I’m not so sure.”
“I...it’s more complicated than that.”
Sasha explained in short order. For once, Tim was totally silent the entire time, letting Sasha dispassionately recite the entire sad story. She finished it at Michael helping her escape, not detailing where she had been dropped off.
Finally, after a long silence, Tim said, “So this is my fault.”
“No, it’s not,” Sasha said harshly. “You were manipulated, same as I was.”
“I’m the idiot who -”
“Yes, you were being an idiot. You should have talked to me, talked to anyone. You should have done anything other than your homicidal partner in crime. You definitely shouldn’t have been buying a fucking black market gun when I know for a fact you have no idea how to shoot. But you tried playing hero and you played straight into Magnus’ hands. You fucked up. Okay? Now let’s try to do better.”
More silence, until Tim sighed. “Can’t believe the Douche’s Jonah Magnus. Explains why Sims is always playing lackey for him. Can’t wait to spill to Martin how his boyfriend framed his boss for murder.”
Sasha chewed her lip, uncertain. She hadn’t shared the details of Jonah and Jon’s conversation too closely - it had seemed private. “See, I’m not sure this is...entirely Jon’s fault.”
Tim groaned. “Not you too! Why is everyone but me and Melanie a fucking Sims apologist?”
“Jon and Jonah are...they’re weird, okay?” Sasha moved to chewing her hair, uncertain of how to describe it. If it should even be described. It seemed so private, so unsuitable to name...but maybe everybody thinking that was how these things stayed perpetuated for so long. “I think Jonah’s kind of, you know, abusive?”
The line went silent again.
“Wow,” Tim said finally, “Martin’s going to be so disappointed his boyfriend’s taken.”
“They’re just friends! I think. I’m like, ninety percent sure. But you didn’t hear them, Tim. They’re really...it’s messed up. Trust me.”
“Jesus, Sash, why are you defending someone who fucked all of us over like this? Sims is a big boy, he’s responsible for his own shitty decisions and the shitty company he keeps.” Tim snorted. “I’ve heard them talk, anyway. If anything, Magnus is the one always giving into Sims and his little tantrums. Jesus, I just want to throttle the both of them.”
“Maybe you need to get over your anger issues and focus on actually solving the problem for once,” Sasha snapped. “Nobody has time for your revenge fantasy, Tim! We need to fix all of this.”
“Which one is it, Sash?” Tim asked coldly. “Was I manipulated, or was it my anger issues and hero complex? Are you going to decide if this is my fault or not?”
Sasha’s heart stuttered in her chest. She didn’t know how to explain to him what she knew - that it was everything, that it was all of the above, that he was manipulated through his anger issues and hero complex, that Tim had been pushed in a direction but he had taken the steps all by himself. But she couldn’t blame him entirely, because Sasha had been manipulated the same way, and so had Jon and Martin and Georgie, and if she started thinking like that then she would have to start hating the whole damn world.
“Tim, are we going to stay together?” Sasha whispered, broken-hearted. “Can we even still be together? I love you. I want you here with me. But there’s so much ugliness that’s growing between us. I don’t know if this can be fixed.”
A long silence again. Sasha wanted to be there with him, to read his face, to see what he was thinking. She had always understood him so well, or at least she thought that he did.
“I love you too,” Tim said finally. “I want to fix this too. I - I don’t know, Sasha. I love you. The thought of you alone, in danger, and not even knowing where you are, is fucking me up. It’s like Danny all over again, Sasha, I can’t handle this. Can we have this conversation again when I know you’re safe?”
“Okay,” Sasha said, and she knew that this was probably the best both of them could do right now. “Are we staying together?”
“...I don’t know.”
“...are we breaking up?”
“...still don’t know.”
“Okay,” Sasha repeated again, and sighed. “I won’t call you from this phone twice. I’m doing the best I can here. I’m safe, I think. Things will be okay, Tim.”
“Sash,” Tim said, “I don’t remember the last time things were okay.”
And neither did she, and they both knew it, and she hung up on him without saying anything further. She lay on the bed, listening faintly to the sound of the housekeeper vacuuming, staring up at the fan as it beat in a steady rhythm on the ceiling.
Was Tim right? Was she reading too much into Jon and Jonah? It wasn’t her job to fix Jon, to puzzle out his weird psychology. Maybe he was just an asshole without a spine,and there wasn’t anything more to that.
No. Sasha didn’t believe that. This was a puzzle that she hadn’t solved yet, and she had the feeling that at the heart of this puzzle was the key to finally keeping herself and Tim safe. She couldn’t abide a mystery, couldn’t trick herself into thinking that the truth wasn’t important. The truth was all Sasha had. She couldn’t close her eyes to it, that awful and ugly reality.
Tim...he had been such a bad idea. But he had always been her favorite one: the way he could always cheer her up, his bright and bold smile, his courage and heart and sensitivity and vulnerability. He had loved her, truly and wholly, for who she was. He knew the ugly corners of her and loved them as much as he loved her best attributes.
Was that still true? Was Sasha turning into a person that Tim just couldn’t love? Was Tim turning into someone that Sasha couldn’t love?
People changed. Sometimes they changed apart. And for some strange reason, Sasha just couldn’t bear the thought of that.
Lying on the bed of a grim reaper, crying like a broken-hearted teenager, Sasha didn’t notice that the housekeeper’s vacuum had stopped running. She didn’t notice the knock on the door, or the creak of the door opening, or the gentle rise and fall of voices. She only heard it when there was a soft knock at her own door, and she was forced to roll off the bed to open her bedroom door.
Standing in front of her, looking nervous, was the housekeeper. Standing behind her was Jonathan Sims.
He looked pretty bad, Sasha noted clinically. Eye bags, even more pronounced than usual, stood starkly under his eyes, and his hair wasn’t as cropped short and styled as it usually was. It had grown out a little, making Jon look more like a tired modern guy walking the streets of London than a centuries old immortal psychic vampire. He was still dressed in a suit, as he always was, but the suit jacket was off and his dress shirt was rolled up to the elbow.
He stared at Sasha, probably registering every minute change in her appearance as she did his, before glancing down at the housekeeper. “You’re excused for the day. Thank you for your time.”
He passed her something - probably neatly folded bills - and nodded at her as she shakily nodded back and escaped the flat as quickly as possible. Jon stepped backwards in the hallway, gesturing for her to come out, and walked back into the living room. Because Sasha was just slightly too prideful to barricade herself in the bedroom, and partly because she wasn’t sure that Jon wouldn’t break into a woman’s bedroom, she stepped out into the grandiose yet cluttered living room with him. He stood in the center, hands in his pockets, looking over the flat with a clinical eye.
“Georgie’s sense of interior decoration is as immaculate as ever,” Jon noted clinically. “She used to spend months getting every house we ever lived in just right. Said it was her job as lady of the household. She had never been a lady of any household, of course, not in the way that Jonah and I had once known - but her fun’s important to her, and it doesn’t hurt anybody important.” He sniffed slightly. “You coming to stay here was for the best after all. She’s been lonely, I think.”
“I’m staying here because I’m homeless,” Sasha said flatly. For the first time, she noticed a small manila envelope under his arm, tucked slightly into his back pocket. “Because of you.”
“I’ve kept your flat for you,” Jon said eagerly, stepping forward, and letting his cold mask fall. In him now was something eager, something almost pleading. Sasha forced herself not to step away. “All of your possessions are intact, and I can get your bank accounts unfrozen easily enough. Once all of this blows over, your life can be right back to normal.”
“Wow,” Sasha drawled, crossing her arms, “how kind. Were you so busy being this nice to me that you forgot that Georgie barred you from this flat because I don’t want to fucking look at you?”
“She’ll get over it,” Jon said dismissively. “She’s been wanting us to make up, anyhow.” He stepped closer again, fluorescent green eyes fixed on her large and warm brown ones, and Sasha fought the tingle crawling up her spine. “Sasha, I really am sorry. Jonah was out of line in what he did. But - but you know, he really does know best. Even if it doesn’t seem so. What we’re doing now, it’s for the best for your development. I promise this will all blow over soon, and things will be better. For all of us.”
“For a subject of a truth god,” Sasha said, voice dripping sarcasm, “you have a unique ability to lie to yourself.”
Jon puffed up, scowling down at her. “That’s ridiculous. I -”
“Does Jonah Magnus respect you?” Sasha pressed.
Jon...hesitated, and they both saw it. Jon frantically tried to cover, quickly saying, “Of course he does. I’m his partner, and we’ve been partners for two hundred years. There’s nobody on earth he respects more than me. There’s nobody he respects but me.”
“Then why does he talk to you like you’re an idiot?”
“He talks to everyone like that.”
“Because he doesn’t respect anyone but you. You just said that. But if he respects you, then wouldn’t he talk to you differently?”
There it is - Jon’s shoulders hunched slightly, unconsciously on the defensive. “Does he give you equal input on decisions?”
“I always give my -”
“Does he listen to them?”
Jon was silent. Finally, slowly, he said, “Jonah was right. He said you’d get like this.”
Fuck. Sasha’s heart sank, even as her jaw dropped in incredulity. She had lost him. “You must be kidding.”
“He said you’d get jealous.” Jon crossed his arms, turning slightly away from her, but what he clearly meant to be a closed-off stance just seemed defensive. “He said that you’d get upset that I’m more loyal to him than to you. What we’re doing now is for your own good, Miss James. You’ll see one day that this - this unpleasantness is helping you grow.”
Unpleasantness? Unpleasantness?! Putting her life at risk was an inconvenience? “I’ll see, huh?” Sasha said bitterly. “Just like you saw? Just like how you changed your mind from this being cruel and traumatic to it being a momentary unpleasantness?” She barked a short laugh, not very humorous at all. “I was there. He called you stupid, he said that you couldn’t trust anybody but him, and he called you an idiot. Are those the words of someone who respects you? Of someone who even likes you?”
Jon stiffened, mouth tightening, and he broke eye contact and looked away. “Don’t concern yourself with the private business between Jonah and I.”
“When you’re having the conversation over a cooling corpse that you framed me for then you’re making it my business, you absolute shitheel!” Sasha yelled, finally losing her temper. “Your bullshit is ruining my life! Your complete inability to stand up to that sack of shit is ruining my life!”
“Shut up!” Jon yelled, seemingly having taken her losing her temper as permission to lose his. Distantly, Sasha was aware of his stupid this must have looked: two fully grown adults, yelling in a living room like children. “You’re a spoiled child who doesn’t know anything! All I’ve ever done is try to help you, and you spit in my face! You’re no better than Martin!”
Abruptly, strangely, Jon stopped short. He seemed almost embarrassed, almost in pain.
And just like that, Sasha knew. “He’s not letting you see Martin, is he.”
For just a split second, Jon’s expression crumpled, but he forced it back into his haughty mask. “I decided that it was best I didn’t waste my time with manipulative traitors.”
“Was that your idea?” Sasha asked flatly, abruptly extremely tired. “Or was it Jonah’s?”
Jon was silent. They both knew the answer.
“If you walked up to Jonah now and told him that you wanted to start dating Martin, do you think that you’d leave that conversation still wanting to do it? Or would you somehow decide, all by yourself, that you’ll end up doing what Jonah wants anyway?”
Jon didn’t say anything.
A strange mix of emotions swirled in Sasha’s stomach. Anger and disgust mixed with pity and sadness. What had Jon been like, before he met Jonah Magnus? Had he been a good person?
But maybe that wasn’t so important. Maybe the question that had to be asked was - what kind of person would Jonathan Sims be without Jonah Magnus in his life?
All at once, the fight seemed to go out of Jon. His shoulders sagged, and he abruptly deflated. He looked down at the ground, ashamed and aware of it. He had always been aware of it. He had just been lying to himself. Maybe it was impossible to live without it.
“I don’t know what to do without him,” Jon said quietly. “I’ve never - I need him.”
“You don’t,” Sasha said, abruptly exhausted. “You want to help me, Jon? You want to protect me and Martin? You can’t do that while staying friends with Jonah Magnus. You have to choose. So long as you stay close to him, you are going to stay within his complete control. That’s what he does. He controls everybody and everything. And you’re letting him. You’re justifying it. You’re doing his work for him. Everybody around him is - even Georgie. There are two people in your life who are trying to get you away from him, and he’s trying to convince you to cut them out of your life. You think that’s a coincidence?”
Jon opened his mouth, then closed it. Weakly, he said, “You’re wrong.”
“I need your help, Jon,” Sasha whispered, and to her shame found her voice cracking. “I need someone on my side. I can do it alone, but - but I’m scared. And I don’t want to. I need help. I’m scared.”
But she knew, even as she said it, that Jon was scared too. He couldn’t reach out a hand to her - not now, not here. Jon had carried around his fear for hundreds of years, pushing it down and pretending it wasn’t there, and it informed everything he’d ever done. Scrambling for power, exerting that power, desperately dominating even as he was dominated - it stemmed from that fear, all of it. And Jonah Magnus kept those flames fanned, because a Jon who was afraid was a Jon who could be controlled.
A Sasha who was afraid, who was isolated, who was trapped, was one who could be controlled.
The realization was dizzying. Somehow, the thought that kept running through her mind was - who’d do that? Who was such a terrible person that they’d go through all that trouble, all of that plotting, just to make someone suffer? Not because they disliked them, not in revenge, not because of any human emotion - but just because it was convenient? Useful?
Because you could?
So this was what power did to a person, Sasha realized. So this was what power and immortality and money and supernatural gifts did to you. It made you someone who Sasha could never hope to understand, whose depths of depravity she could never truly rationalize. To Sasha, who prided herself on knowing people and being able to understand them and their motives - it was almost a relief, almost a blessing, that she couldn’t possibly understand the motives of Jonah Magnus at all.
Jon stared at her, fluorescent green eyes wide, and for just a minute she could see the fear that she knew was there written all over his face. For just a minute, Sasha and Jon were scared together, both trapped in tumultuous waters that they couldn’t control. For the first time Sasha empathized with Jon.
Jonah Magnus was somebody that Sasha could never understand. But Jon was, and for the first time Sasha knew what Martin meant when he said that he felt as if Jon had been a good person, a long time ago.
You can’t understand someone and hate them. Not really. You could be angry, upset, betrayed...but if you really understood someone, backwards and forwards, true hate was difficult to find.
“I have to go,” Jon said, almost dizzily. He shoved the manila folder at her, both of them having forgotten that it was even there in the first place. He glanced at it, frightened and guilty. “Be - be careful when meeting Jude Perry. Don’t take her at her word. I have to go.”
He fled, as if the hounds of hell themselves were snapping at his heels, and Sasha was left standing in an opulent hallway, clutching a manila folder as if it was a time bomb, completely certain that it was meant to hurt her and cause her pain and damage her, completely certain that she was going to read it anyway.
Like Jon - what choice did she have?
But as she stumbled back to her room, as she sat down on the comfortable chair and thumbed on the tape recorder that sat at the desk, the words of Jonathan Sims ran through her mind. His warning. A clumsy attempt at protection. At the very least, a signifier of desire.
Sasha knew, as she sometimes knew things, that Jon had started out somebody who deeply desired to protect others like him. To take revenge, to grab power, yes, but also to spread that precious knowledge and resources around. He had never stopped thinking of himself as one of those vulnerable people, people who society had stepped on and ground into the dirt. Deep down he had just wanted things to be fair, wanted some justice in the world. Jon, at one point, had only wanted to help.
Maybe she wasn’t so alone after all.
“Statement of Sasha James, Head Archivist…”
#my writing#YES I KNOW THIS IS TOO LONG FOR A TUMBLR POST BUT CONSIDER: ITS NOT GOOD ENOUGH FOR AO3 AND MY STANDARDS ARE INSANE#jonathan sims#georgie barker#sasha james#archivist!sasha#human relations#tma#the magnus archives#tma fanfic#jonmartin#jason's tims age
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I’m sure you’ve heard this a hundred times already but chapter 4 was so bittersweet and you’re so talented. Your writing is amazing. I love reading all the little tidbits of what Eren is thinking and how strong he feels about you. And the way you set up the mutual pining. Just pure perfection.
Oh my god it just pisses me off how so many things could be resolved with communication! But it’s like that in real life too and my poor baby Eren has just been royally fucked over so many times that being vulnerable is just so terrifying of an option.
Ok just a few questions… to start off, where’s Armin? Are we going to see him later on? Is this where the chapter later on jealous sex comes in?
Also, it’s so cute how you included Moblit. He is so underappreciated. Sigh, I miss that bitch. We all need a friend like Moblit that reminds us to be careful and not do stupid shit. I mean, I guess after putting it like that… he’s basically the mom friend???
Two, girl the way you included Carla in this. It’s interesting to see a fic where Carla actually abandon Eren in a modern au! Fic. Is she still alive? Will we see her later on as part of Eren’s journey to learning how to express himself more freely and learning how to stop putting up walls?
Three, I FUCKING SAW ZEKE FRITZ IN THERE. Oh my god, does Grisha even know he has another son? Is that why Carla left? Because she found out that her husband had another family? Will we get a happy, non-toxic reunion between these two brothers? Who is Zeke married to? 🤭👀👀
Four, not really a question but Jean and Reiner even if they weren’t mentioned in this character. Oh Jean, you always break my heart you handsome, floozy son of a bitch. You too Reiner. Just in a different way. Such a good son wanting to make his mom proud and take care of her.
Five, my god Levi why haven’t you ever forced all three members of Empire into therapy? Low key feel like that would be a super funny crack chapter. Like Jean or something flirts with the reader and Eren gets PISSED to the point where he kicks the mf shit out of Jean. And the agency is like “ok anger management counseling time.”
Therapist: “can you tell me why you’re all here today.
Reiner: this isn’t fair! I didn’t do jackshit
Jean: you didn’t step in at all when eren was kicking the crap out of me
Reiner: it wouldn’t have helped you if Eren started beating the shit out of me too.
Eren to therapist: I’m here because of these two. if I wasn’t surrounded by idiots, you would be enjoying your afternoon.
Sorry for the rambling. I’m really loving your Last Song Series. Thanks for sharing your talent with us!!💕
OKAY FIRST OF ALL lemme just tell you how GIDDY I am to receive such long message from you. i don't know who you are or where you're from but
second, and I think I speak for all the writers here when I say that it doesn't matter if I have received similar messages in the past that complimented my writings because BRO???? THIS IS WHAT KEEPS ME GOING!!! I love writing fics, but every time I have to put my stuff on my blog I get so worried like I have to re-check my stuff at least three times (so that's like reading 45k every week lol). even when I'm about to publish my story, I will always go to @justasketch so she can wish me good luck cause that's just how worried I am. So whenever I get this kind of message, these positive feedbacks from you all, it gets me so pumped up and I can write like 10k in one sitting no kidding. and also, please don't apologize for rambling or sending me long messages I LOVE IT AND I LOVE YOU FOR SENDING THIS TO ME BLESS YOU AND YOUR BEAUTIFUL SOUL GODDAMN I'M IN LOVE
okay to answer your questions (jfc how cute can you be, i can feel your enthusiasm for my fic and i'm crying thank you so much for loving my story 😭😭😭)
Armin will show up in chapter 8 or 9 (I haven't finished writing chapter 5 yet but I've made a draft so he'll probably appear around that chapter). Mikasa will appear in the same chapter too, I think, and that's near the end because these two are going to start so many conflicts in eren and y/n's relationship lol. as for the jealous sex? hmmm, maybe 😏
dude I LOVE moblit. i think he's so adorable like we all need a friend like moblit honestly. he's one of y/n's co-workers and he likes her a lot but he's too shy to approach her. he's precious.
carla is still alive but... well, you'll see later in the story. just a heads up though, i love her, i think she's beautiful and she's so pure but in this fic, she's a terrible, terrible mother figure. And it's sad because eren loves her so much. she'll appear in the story when eren opens up about his past.
zeke is not related to eren or grisha, that's why i'm using Fritz as his last name. he's just a random person I use to be Pieck's love interest lol. he's not gonna have anything to do with the story, unfortunately.
there will be a few fun scenes with jean and reiner in chapter 5 and 6, i'm having so much fun writing their banters
DUDE THESE BOYS REALLY NEED THERAPY I SWEAR BUT HAHAHAHHAHAHA OMG I'M LAUGHING AT THE SCENARIO YOU PUT THERE I LOVE EREN'S LINE i think jean tries to avoid getting into fight with eren 'cause he got pretty scared when eren threatened him back then in chapter 3. also if he pisses him off so much and Eren decides to leave the band, he's gonna be so fucking screwed.
i'm surprised that you didn't mention anything about pieck or porco but you noticed zeke and moblit haha cute
#pieck is my fav character in this series#i have 3 more scenes written for her#i LOVE writing her dialogues SO MUCH#she's crazy#THANK YOU AGAIN FOR THIS LOVE!!!
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The Treatment of Capt. Syverson-Chapter Two: Therapeutic Procedure
Pairing: Captain “Sy” Syverson x OFC (Shane Benton)
Summary: Shane and Sy share some moments during their treatment sessions…and a phone call that could set the tone for the next few weeks.
Word Count: 2.6k
Warnings: None, yet… ;)
Author’s Note: Sorry, I was so eager and excited to post the first chapter of this last night, I totally put some inaccurate info in my description notes. I will correct that in the original post and try to do better henceforth! Hope you enjoy Sy and Shane totally flirting some more and getting more friendly in this chapter. Feedback is appreciated! Even constructive criticism! :D
Disclaimer: Unfortunately for me, Henry is not mine, le sigh, and all mention of him, his characters, any characters from his films, or his precious doggy, Kal, are strictly for transformative and recreational use. I neither ask for, nor accept payment for the work I post on Tumblr or AO3. Unbeta’d because this is for fun and escapism.
Tags: @onlyhenrys @cavillryarchive @summersong69 @titty-teetee
Let me know if you wish to be added to the list! I’m happy to do it!
Shane woke up that morning with knots in her stomach. She dropped every product she picked up in the shower, she was shaking so much. She accidentally ordered the wrong coffee on her way to work and was now drinking something much less caffeinated and far too sweet for her taste. The barista had informed her it was a grande caramel macchiato with an extra pump of vanilla and extra caramel drizzle…with only two shots of espresso…she couldn't begin to describe how wrong that drink was for her. But it was better than nothing, she told herself, not fully convincingly.
She had chosen her clothes with extra care, even though, with the dress code, her options were limited. And she had made sure to put on a bit of mascara and just a touch of perfume, even though they weren't strictly supposed to wear it…she didn't know why she was bothering.
Well, actually, she did know why. She had been checking her schedule extra diligently lately to make sure she didn't look like a hobo when Sy was coming in. He'd been coming for three weeks now, and after the initial bellyaching about Jordan not being as pretty as her…her heart!...and his feeling extra sore after his visits with him, they were on a roll and had a great chemistry together as far as their treatments went…she tried not to think about…beyond the world of therapy.
She thought back to their first session after she got back from her trip. And the conversation they had.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
"I think the next time you can't see me, I'm just going to cancel." he had sulked as he wiggled his mass of muscle onto the mat.
"Sy, no. you need therapy. Don't be like that to Jordan. He's an excellent therapist."
"He ain't you though." he smirked, sending her heart racing with that smile that somehow managed to look both boyish and rakish under his full, dark beard. Fucking hell. He needed to stop.
"Well, we can't fault him for that, can we? Lay back, Mister." She demanded. Done with the niceties of the evaluation and onto the treatments where she was in charge. The boss.
"Yes, sir!" she laughed at his clear avoidance of calling her ma'am.
"So where'd you go last week? Vacation or stay-cation?" he asked, the term "stay-cation" sounding downright comical coming out of his country-boy mouth.
"I went to the beach. Gulf Shores."
"I thought you looked like you got some sun."
"Yeah," she pretended his noticing the detail of her awesome tan did not send her reeling. "My folks rented a condo right on the water for my siblings and I to come and stay with them. They're still there. It was tough to leave all that beauty." the beach, pretty much any beach, was her favorite place to be.
"I bet…" he looked at her, something dreamy in his eyes, but he looked away before she could process it. "I thought I had my fill of sand and sun when I was over in Iraq. But you make it sound…like paradise." he smiled softly up at her as she worked on his knee, trying to break apart some of the scar tissue from the injuries and surgeries he'd had…and focus on that, and not the warmth rising in her.
"That's the perfect way to describe any place on the Gulf of Mexico. I doubt it's anything like Iraq, since there's so much water around. It's my favorite vacation destination. Well, apart from London."
"Them British folks always seem so stuck up. Don't know if I'd get along with any of 'em."
"It felt like a second home for me. Everyone was very kind and polite, for the most part. At least it was no worse than it is here."
"Maybe it's just because you're so nice."
"Wait 'til about week eight or ten of your protocol. You won't think I'm nice then. You'll be cussing me out and ready to ring my neck."
"Promise?" he asked, a dark grin on his lips and in his eyes…she faltered for a moment, gulping.
"Cut it out, Syverson." she rolled her eyes, covering…without great effect the way he made her feel.
"Yes...ma'am." he smirked with satisfaction.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And now, today, she'd be treating him again, fairly early in the day, and she had to prepare herself. She'd checked the policy, and although there wasn't anything strictly against dating a patient, it was clearly a conflict of interest, and would be frowned upon by her frigid tyrant of a boss. Best to let things remain platonic for now.
Her 9:30 was a no show, so she finished up some notes and was working on some continuing education credits when messenger popped up around 10:00.
Sergeant Sexypants is here. He's quite early and he knows it…*smirk emoji* he must like you, Shane!
Heather, come on, be respectful…he was discharged at the rank of Captain! *rofl emoji* and I think you might be right about him liking me…*nervous emoji*
Oooooooooh!!! You guys are gonna *couple kissing emoji* *eggplant emoji* *okay emoji* *explosion emoji* *baby emoji*
Omg…*three facepalm emojis* I am going to go ahead and start him early since my 9:30 was a NCNS.
Don't finish him too early. Make it last. *smirk emoji*
Jeez. She closed the chat and went to grab him from the waiting area.
"Hey Sy, you ready?"
"You bet, sunshine!" he flashed her a crooked smile. He was calling her sunshine now…ad that to the list of things she'd have to pretend didn't make her swoon.
"Great. Let's start on the bike. How's the knee feeling today?"
"Oh, it's…about the same. Stiff. Lil' sore."
"Well, it's a slow process, like I told you at your eval. You've got a lot going on in there."
"I know…just…it hasn't taken me four weeks to do anything in my life." he sulked. "So…thinking about this taking…twelve or more…" he grimaced as he sat down on the bike, and adjusted it for his longer than average legs, putting his feet in the pedal stirrups.
"You may not see it, Sy, because you're so close to it, but trust me, you're making progress. I can tell you're doing your exercises at home, and you're always willing to put in the work here. You have no idea how much that sets you apart from…some of these other people." she leaned in closer and spoke the last part more quietly to him. It was true. So many of her patients were either lazy or just in it to appease their MDs into writing them scripts for pain meds. That wasn't Sy.
"You really think so?" he gave her the side eye with his baby blues, crushing her with the color like the waves of the ocean she'd just returned from.
"In fact, I know so." she placed a reassuring hand on his broad and thick shoulder. She felt the tension between them hum, like electric current.
"Now, level one, and a steady pace. You're not trying to win any medals here. I'll take those crutches."
"When ya think I can 86 'em damn things?" he griped as he handed over the assistive devices.
"Well, you see Potter again tomorrow? I'll write an update today and send it to him. If he likes what he reads, or more likely pretends to read, regarding your progress, he may discharge them. Do you feel like you can be good to the knee and treat it nice without using crutches? I don't want you to regress and re-injure yourself. That's not gonna get you into your running shoes any sooner."
"I'll be nice. Real gentle." he winked at her…he wasn't just talking about the knee. And she knew it. But again, she pretended she didn't, ignoring once more those butterflies threatening to choke her they were multiplying so fast in her belly.
"Okay, I'll put that in my note. Patient compliant with instructions to be nice." she laughed.
They talked as they biked, Shane sat on the one next to him and pedaled along with him for something to do other than be idle. She thought it made him feel better as well. Like he wasn't doing it alone. They covered the subject of her siblings, an older brother in IT and a younger sister who was an MA, and his German Shepherd, Aika, which he was allowed to bring home from Iraq after they were both honorably discharged. Music, both of them completely in agreeance about the superiority of classic rock.
"I noticed you've worn a Lynyrd Skynyrd shirt a few times and meant to say something before now."
"Yeah, they're one of my favorites. But there are a few newer groups that I like a lot, too. Kings of Leon got me through some tough times, honestly."
"Oh, they're great! I love their sound. And their lyrics…poetry."
"No shit. Sorry." she shook her head and raised up her hands to indicate that he didn't need to apologize to her for swearing. She'd been known to make sailors blush when she was off the clock. "Only by the Night…that whole album is…it's just in my blood, ya know? Ya ever have an album do that?"
"I have. Whole artists catalogs, actually."
"Which artist?" he prodded.
"The Beatles. Pretty much every song. Like you said, it just, like, I dunno, it's almost deeper than the veins. It's in the marrow. My soul." she stared off out the windows ahead of them, thinking about her favorite band in the world and how magical it was to experience Sir Paul McCartney playing some of her favorites live…twice…and the timer on the bike went off, pulling her from her daydream.
She looked over at him, startled by both the noise, and the dreamy look in his eyes that was becoming all too familiar.
"Sorry." she stood, grabbing his crutches for him and handing them back to him from where she had leaned them as they rode.
"Hey, don't be sorry for…ahem…for loving what you love. We should all…hold on to the things that make us feel like that." she nodded.
"Thanks…I don't think a lot of people…understand the way I…my tendency to take things like music, movies, and shows…books…so deeply to my heart." they walked to the treatment room from the gym, taking their time, since they had it. A rare occurrence for Shane, always needing to capitalize on every spare minute. To make productivity a priority.
"I think…that…well, seeing a pretty grim side of the world like I have…seems like there's enough darkness and bullshit making everyone miserable. If we find something…or…someone…that brings us some happiness or even just makes that misery bearable…we oughta hang onto 'em real tight. Cherish it like gold." the silence in the small room was loud with that electrical hum of their tension again. He'd said all the right things, as he always seemed to, but under the absolute wrong circumstances. She just nodded.
"They teach you philosophy in Basic?" she giggled. He laughed back in response.
"Oh, no, Basic was way easier than…whatever goes on inside of us."
"Speaking of which," she segued deftly, "lay back, and let my try to get some range out of that knee before I take new measurements for this update I'm gonna write."
"Yes, ma'am!" he chuckled.
"You get some sick thrill out of calling me that, don't you?" she scowled playfully at him.
"Oh, you have no idea…ma'am." he winked at her.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The next day, Shane was wondering how Sy's appointment went as she ate her soup at lunch and caught up on her morning notes. She got a ping on messenger.
You have a gentleman caller…*eggplant emoji* hehe, he's on line three.
Geez…thanks Heather.
No need to ask for a name. She knew Heather meant Sy.
She picked up the phone at her desk in the treatment room.
"Hey Sy! How'd the appointment go?"
"Hey, sunshine…eh…he said I'm doin' good, but he wants me to stay on crutches another two weeks." she could hear grave disappointment in his voice. She felt for him.
"Aww, I'm sorry Sy. I know you wanted off those. And I know they're a pain. Literally and figuratively."
"Why wouldn't he want me off 'em?" he was so frustrated. He must have just left the office.
"Did you ask him that question?"
"You know doctors, Shane. Not like I would have got an answer in plain English. Figured you'd know."
"Well, I haven't seen your post-visit report, but it's my presumption that he wants to play it safe. You know he spent most of his day in the operating room with you, right? An eight hour surgery, you had. He probably doesn't want to undo all that by d/c'ing the crutches too soon."
"I was gonna be careful though, Shane!" he was worked up properly, and she could hear it over the roar of his pickup in the background.
"I know you were, Sy. I'm sure you were going to take all kinds of precautions. But what if you're walking into your kitchen, during a storm, and there's a loud clap of thunder, and Aika gets startled and busts past you? What if you're feeling good one day, and forget about it, and jog to catch up to someone holding the door open for you and miss a stick or something under foot? You can't prepare yourself for every pebble or patch of mud in your path, Sy. Accidents will happen. Some circumstances are beyond our control…we just have to do the best we can. The crutches are going to help you until we get you stronger. That's what we'll focus on until those two weeks are up."
"Why is it you can calm me down like this?" he asked, sincere and truly calmer than he had been.
"I'm just a good therapist, is all."
"Ya don't think that's really all, do ya?" the sound of his deep drawl in her ear from the receiver made her shiver. He was implying something that she just couldn't entertain. It wasn't possible for them right now. Maybe…down the road…in a few weeks…
"I'll see ya tomorrow, Sy. Come ready to work that knee."
"You didn't say no…" he was too hopeful. Damn it, he was cute when he was hopeful. She was glad she couldn't see his face light up like she knew it was doing.
"You may have noted I didn't say yes, either."
"Yet. See ya in the mornin', sunshine."
"Bye, Sy."
She put the receiver in the cradle and her face in her hands.
"Shit."
She had a feeling this particular patient was about to become much more complicated.
Up Next: Chapter Three-Therapeutic Activity
#netflix sand castle#sand castle#henry cavill#henry cavill fanfic#henry cavill x ofc#captain syverson#captain syverson fanfic#captain syverson x ofc
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LET’S GET READY TO RE-CAAAAAAAAP
“I have numerous science-based questions” I mean, same. It also sets up that Huey is gonna be out of his element this episode
SCROOGE HAS NO TIME FOR SCIENCE
“I AM THAT CHAMPION.” A bit full of yourself there. I couldn’t hear this line without saying “I’M. THAT. HERO.” Oh VeggieTales, you’ll always be with me
THEY ALL LOOK SO ADORABLE!!
I like that Louie does a finger gun when Scrooge gets to him
Like I said earlier, I DO NOT care Scrooge already putting pressure on these kids
Poor Dewey seems like he’s the unfavorite, which is probably how Donald felt as well
Huey makes a good point and I do NOT like how dismissive Scrooge is of the twins
That being said...they totally killed someone in battle
SOMEDAY WE’LL FIND IT, THE RAINBOW CONNECTION!
Why didn’t Launchpad crash? I know he can land w/o crashing but it’s usually when he lands in water. THIS FEELS IMPORTANT SOMEHOW though it probably isn’t
“THEY FOUND A WAY TO MAKE RAINBOWS BETTER!” God, I love Webby
“This is the best day.” WEBBY, YOU ARE REACHING CRITICAL LEVELS OF ADORABLE
Birds with beards look odd
“Yeah, sure. Of course.” Poor Huey, magic and mythology aren’t his strong point
I love that it says Odin’s Closet over the shirts. It’s the little details
“Guess Louie knows what Louie’s doing today.” And then he disappears into the shirts. I can appreciate someone who knows what they’re about
I want ALL the shirts from this episode!
“WHOA, IT’S WRESTLING!” He looks so dang happy, it’s ADORABLE
“THIS IS AWESOME!” Chanting is fun
“So these guys just copied professional wrestling?” Huey, you’re form of logic is not welcome here
Does that mean Scrooge told someone about his battles and inspired them to create pro wrestling? I’m gonna go with that
“And they will love me for it!” Dewey, sweetie, that’s only how it works half the time
I loved all the man-snake stuff. Made me giggle
Man snake be THICC. HOT DAMN
I love the little pig ref. HE’S SO CUTE
Jormungandr knows how to pump up a crowd
So, like, is everyone in the audience technically DEAD?! That makes this episode slightly darker. I dig it
I wonder if Jormungandr sees Earth’s destruction as a good thing for Earth. Like if he genuinely thinks they’d be better off in Valhalla. Or if he’s just a bastard who wants to watch the world burn
Scrooge is a bit too into playing the heel
The way Scrooge moves and the faces he makes as the Millionaire Miser remind me of Glomgold
“I watch a lot of wrestling while I fly.” “Wait, while?” This exchange always cracks me up
“Uncle Scrooge is the greatest hero of all time.” “Huh, I guess not everyone thinks so.” I feel like this is foreshadowing later events
RIP Announcer Puffin
“DIBS ON ANNOUNCING!” A dude just got KO’d bro! Have a bit of respect
And the return of the dynamic sports announcer duo. Glad Huey got his badge
I NEED MORE WRESTLING ANNOUNCER LP
Strongbeard is DOPE
“How did you know that?” “Just calling it like I see it. WRESTLING!” The real reason Launchpad knows is because he’s actually Thor but doesn’t remember. I WILL DIE ON THIS HILL
FEAR THE BEARD
“What matters is I’m doing the right thing.” I don’t know, you really seem to enjoy being a heel
This whole match is great
Dewey, there ARE NO RULES IN WRESTLING. Plus you aren’t the ref, so you can’t make that call
I have very inappropriate jokes go through my head when only one arm absorbs the beard energy
“I am so confused.” CONSTANT MOOD
DID SCROOGE NARUTO RUN AT STRONGBEARD?!
I like that Scrooge dives onto him the same way he dives into his bin
LP is so excited he pushes Huey out of the way for NO REASON
HOLY FUCK THAT DUDE THREW A CHAIR AT A CHILD!
All the bone cracking in this episode made me uncomfortable, as in my bones hurt during it
“He is such a good guy.” I’d say he’s a fair guy, not necessarily a good guy
“Which two of you will fight for me?” Webby has been waiting for this moment her WHOLE LIFE
Louie, always taking time to make that money
Who gave him a shirt cannon?!
I love that the dude comes up wearing the shirt
Dewey just slaps Scrooge in the face
Champ POPular! Too cute! I love his hair and outfit. Though I don’t think Champ POPular’s “too popular to hate.” If anything he might annoy people due to his popularity
I thought he was gonna pull out yo-yos as his “finishing touch” and I was sad when it was lollipops even though that makes more sense. BRING BACK THE YO-YOS!
“Do all the fighting and make sure he doesn’t die.” That is a valid concern
WE WILL WE WILL ROCK YOU! I’D KNOW IT ANYWHERE
Huey taking notes is adorable
“Just in time for the tag-team round.” “Wait, they’re playing tag now?! MAN!” I love how Danny says MAN
How does Huey not know what a tag-team is? It’s a pretty common term
I love Launchpad’s reading face
Dewey has red, blue, and green lollipops. Cute
“HE’S THROWING LOLLIPOPS BECAUSE HE THINKS WE’RE SUCKERS!” That took me off guard and I laughed so hard
“I’ve known you my whole life, I kinda knew how this would play out.” Louie is genre savvy. Perhaps too savvy. He’s gonna figure out he’s in a tv show
“More like Champ POP..ulation zero because he has no friends...in Friendtown.” I fail to see how that was any worse than LP’s “more like Champ UN-POPular.”
“WE HATE YOU NOW!” Tough crowd
Huey’s face after that. I just want to pinch his lil cheeks
WEBBY DON’T NEED NO WRESTLER NAME
It TOTALLY went over my head that they censored Hela with Hecka (at least they used her better than the MCU did. WE COULD HAVE HAD SO MUCH BETTER)
I would let her pin me to the mat and crush my skull in
“Oh, COME ON, THIS is what you like?! A creepy goth and her pet dog!” SHUT UP, DEWEY, THAT IS EXACTLY WHAT I WANT! I’m surprised Webby didn’t slap him for the “creepy goth” comment seeing as Lena is goth and misunderstood
“HECKA YEAH! HECKA YEAH!” SHE’S SO COOL AND SEXY AND SHE HAS A DOG
Poor Huey, he’s doing his best. Hope he takes a shower later because he got pretty sweaty
HECKA COULD STEP ON ME AND I’D SAY THANK YOU
Why did Huey have all those corn puns?
“YOU’RE THE WORST! YOU’RE THE WORST!” It’s just not Huey’s day
“You don’t have to try to make it sound great, it already is.” Did this remind anyone else of Dewey’s “don’t overthink it” advice to Launchpad from Double-O Duck? He’s doing his best to help Huey
I WANT HECKA TO DESTROY ME
“EMBRACE THE BOOZE BOOS.”
Poor Dewey
WEBBY IS A BEAST! SHE WAS BORN FOR THIS!
“EMBRACE YOUR INNER HEEL!” Cuz being a heel is fun!
DUDE, WEBBY TOOK DOWN THE GODDESS OF DEATH WITH NOTHING BUT HER LEGS AND THIGHS! WE STAN!
I like that Fenny has knee pads on
“AW, YOU’RE SO DANGEROUS AND CUTE! I JUST WANT TO PET YOUR LITTLE BELLY!” WEBBY IS ME
“A classic ‘who’s a good boy?’ gambit!” AND I’D FALL FOR IT TOO! SUCH A GOOD BOI
“Wait, am I the Launchpad here?” Bitch, you WISH
“YOU CAN’T GIVE CANDY TO A DOG!” This is why you don’t have a pet, Dewey
“WHOA, back from THE DEAD for the QUEEN of the DEAD!”
Kind of a dick move, Louie
AIR GUITAR!
Jormungandr looks like a Masters of the Universe knock-off toy
WHO’S A GOOD BOI? YOU ARE!
“With a toxic personality” I think you’re projecting a bit, Jormungandr
How does Huey not know what a battle royale is? That is a very common term! Hell, there is a well known book and movie with that title!
“I’m just a humble, noble snake man of the people.” Why does the term snake man make me laugh so much?
WOY REFERENCE FTW
Dewey needs a hug! And some therapy would probably be a good idea
Scrooge’s speech started on a good note then went downhill FAST
“And lastly, I’ll use the dust of your bones as sweetener in my tea.” DAMN
“TOO FAR!” I DON’T THINK IT’S FAR ENOUGH! TELL HIM HOW YOU WILL BATHE IN HIS BLOOD
FUCK YEAH BEAKLEY!
SHE GAVE HIM THE CHAIR! I think this CONFIRMS Beakley as a wrestling fan
“I know we’re supposed to take over for Scrooge one day, but do you ever wonder if maybe we’re not cut out for it?” YOU SHOULDN’T HAVE TO WONDER THOSE THINGS AT ALL!
Louie’s like WE DON’T HAVE TIME FOR THIS SHIT!
“Be LP” My new mantra
Aw, Louie sees Dewey as a hero. Like how LP saw Drake as a hero. I think @drakepad is onto something, this scene and the fight scene seem WAAAAY too much like Drake’s intro to be just a coincidence
I keep saying this, but Louie should consider a career in motivational speaking. He knows what people need to hear
“Let’s do this!” “I don’t know.” “Let’s Dewey this?” “I’m in.”
“I’LL SHED YOUR SKIN FOR YOU!” If he hadn’t of had an old man back moment that would have been a BRUTAL CUT
OMG WAS LAUNCHPAD WEARING THAT THE WHOLE TIME? You see his clothes fly off when he jumps in the ring
“Whoa. In a COMPLETELY UNEXPECTED TWIST, the announcer was Captain Crash THIS WHOLE TIME!” LP does underground wrestling matches in his spare time, TELL ME I’M WRONG
“YOUR CATCHPHRASES ARE FORCED!” I agree, Dewey could have done WAY BETTER
I like Louie just GLARING at the dude who insulted Dewey’s catchphrase
LP looks so proud of Huey
“I don’t care at all, why should I?” Methinks the snake man doth protest too much
I like how Jormungandr’s pupils are thinner during the climax. It shows off his true nature
Dewey should have been the one to do a spin attack, ya know, cuz he’s Sonic? I’ll go now
“The Pop never Stops.” That was better
WHERE ARE ALL THESE CHAIRS COMING FROM?!
I LEGIT thought Strongbeard was gonna throw Dewey his axe and I was like Dewey wouldn’t be able to lift that
SUPER SAIYAN DEWEY! Also was that a TIGER SNARL?
I like the ice pack on Launchpad’s head. Just because he can take a lot of damage doesn’t mean that LP is immune to pain
I like that the crowd CHANGED THEIR BANNERS! Nice
LOUIE AND WEBBY LOOKED SO CUTE!
LP tearing up
“A true people’s hero” I feel like that phrase will come back in relation to other characters (cough DW cough)
Scrooge is such a little shit, it’s kind of adorable
THAT END SHOT! THAT SONG!
This was a SUPER FUN EPISODE! I couldn’t really tell where they were going and I LOVED EVERY SECOND OF IT! I wish we had gotten Huey in some wrestling gear but maybe next time. I like the message that doing the right thing isn’t always popular but I kind of feel like Dewey getting the crowd on his side muddled the message somewhat. Poor Dewey needs therapy or something so he doesn’t feel like he needs CONSTANT approval. Again, he’s 11 YEARS OLD and shouldn’t be put into such a serious position. LP was VIP this episode. I’m bummed we’re on hiatus again, but WHAT an episode to end on!
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Happy Endings-Toby Grisoni
Hey, I read your story "They call it pretend" and it was sooooo good! 💞 If you're still taking prompts, would you consider writing something for Toby? I absolutely love him and there are entirely not enough story with him
I’ve been planning to write for Toby for a while now and I’m so happy to have a couple prompts for him! I hope this is what you were looking for, and I hope you’ll drop ideas for me again!
It was hard not to role your eyes at the man who told you to call him the Boss. He was ridiculous as he walked around your small set up, your table laid out, your lotions and tools for massage therapy prepped on a small table. Everything had to be perfect for his wife who was going to be enjoying your services. “Jacqui is used to the best, don’t let me down” he said, giving you a once over. “Come see me when you’re done for your payment” he said tapping you on your ass as if he was petting you before he walked out of the tent. You would have left then and there, but you were desperately in need of the money and how often did someone offer you your usual fee plus a hefty bonus to come out to the desert to be on some kind of film set it looked like. You stepped out of the tent, letting your head tilt back, enjoying the warm sun on your face.
“You,” your head snapped down, eyes open to look at the woman calling to you. She was a beautiful blonde who you could tell thought she owned the world. Her large diamond ring glittered in the sun as it lay on the chest of a man you could only say was gorgeous, if not a little cocky looking. “You are my masseuse?”
“Um yes…Jacqui?” you ask, your hands going behind your back.
“Good…” she slid her hand into the mystery mans as she pulled him into your tent and you couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow as you followed them in, gasping and turning away as you saw them on top of your table, making out in a mass of tangled limbs and teeth.
“Um…Did you not want…are you…um…” you ask, not sure if what you’re seeing is real life, or if you had taken things wrong with the man who hired you.
“Turn around,” her voice said and you did, your eyes going to the ground as you realized his lips had moved down her throat. “My husband called and asked you to come yes?”
“Yes”
“How sweet,” she said with a laugh, the man at her throat chuckling.
“Jacqui,” you heard her husband call before entering the tent. You almost got whiplash at the way the two on the table separated, the man fiddling with your set up of lotions. “Toby…what are you doing here?”
“Jacqui was telling me that you had this set up for her and I was curious,” He said, turning to look at her boss. “It’s a cool set up here”
“Yes…it’s very interesting to see,” Jacqui said, brushing her blonde hair from her face.
“Jacqui we need to go see Alexei, he just called. Don’t worry,” he said turning to you. “I’ll still pay you, but we don’t need you”
“I’ll take the appointment…if she’s here anyway,” Toby said, looking you up and down in what you could only call hunger.
“Perfect…come Jacqui,” she nodded, and with a subtle lip lick towards Toby before following her husband out of the room.
“Well…how does this work?” he asked fiddling with one of the stones you used when people wanted a hot stone massage. “You just rub me with a rock?” You sighed softly, and went over and took the stone from his hand.
“No,” he raised his hands up in a somewhat surrender. “These are for hot stone therapy…”
“I think I’d rather let you touch me then some rock” he said, leaning down to whisper in your ear. A small shiver went up your spine and you turned, finding yourself almost chest to chest with him. You looked up at him and bit your lip.
“Have you ever had a massage?”
“Not in so many terms,” he said with a grin. “So tell me what to do” You take a step back and grab the blanket laying on the table.
“Strip to your comfort level and then get under the covers” you said handing him the blanket. “I’ll give you a minute” you said, walking back out into the warm sun. Your hands were sweating, and you rubbed them on your dress. Toby was clearly a cad, but it couldn’t change the fact that you could feel that familiar ache in between your legs. It would be best to get yourself together, go in and do your job and then get the hell out of here. “Are you ready?” you asked at the tent flaps.
“Come on in,” he called. You walked in and groaned as you did so. Toby was standing there completely naked, back to you. God did his ass have to look that fucking good. He turned to face you, and you looked up at the top of the tent.
“Um…If you want to go ahead and get um…on the table and cover up…” you heard a chuckle and then the sound of his weight on the table. You chanced looking down to see him looking over at you in the dim light of the tent. “Okay…” you murmured going to grab the lotion. You walked over to put some on him.
“Before you do that,” he said his hand coming up to take your wrist. “Why don’t you strip down too?” he asked, dark eyes trailing over your body. You blushed brightly.
“Why would I do that?” you asked looking at him. “You’re clearly fucking the boss’ wife” he chuckled and sat up, making sure the sheet stayed around his waist.
“It does look bad, doesn’t it?” he asked, using your wrist to pull you a little closer. “But she came on to me, not the other way around…and what am I supposed to do? She’s in control of me getting paid.”
“Sounds familiar,” you said motioning between the two of you.
“Yea…a bit…but, I think you want me for me, not because you think I could get you paid or not paid…I mean let’s be real, no matter what happens in this tent, you’re going to get paid…so why not live a fantasy? How often do you get to come out to a beautiful place like this, have a crazy sex encounter with a sexy somewhat stranger?” he asked, wiggling his eyebrows at you. You couldn’t help but laugh. He wasn’t wrong, how often would you get a chance like this, and god did you find him attractive. You took your wrist from him and turned putting the lotion down.
“I don’t do this…” you said turning to look at him. “I’ve never done this with a client before…”
“I believe you,” he said earnestly. “I don’t think you seem like the type to get crazy about the happy ending of it all” he licked his lips as he looked you up and down before catching your eye. “Tell me no, and we’ll call it a day…say yes and…”. You bit your lip and took a moment to think about it before crossing the tent to him and pressing your lips to his. He groaned happily against your lips and wrapped his hand up into your hair pulling you closer. Your lips and his moved together heating up the tent as you did. You placed your hands on his abs, pushing up the planes of his muscled flesh, over his pert nipples and to his shoulders, your fingers digging into the skin there as his hand in your hair tightened. He pulled back, his lips going to your neck where he laid kisses, small nibbles and licked at the skin. “Now can I please strip you down?” he growled into the skin of your shoulder. You laughed and took a step back lifting your arms as an okay for him to lift your dress over your head. He sat up fully, his legs coming down into the sand, his hands went to your hips pulling you in between his thighs before he bunched at the dress to pull it over your head, throwing it over onto the table of tools, knocking over the bottle of lotion causing you both to chuckle. He ran his fingers up your spine before snapping open your bra and flinging it the ground in one fluid motion. You gasped softly and he gave you a boyish little smirk. “Now tell me little girl,” he murmured, hands on your breast massaging your nipples to stiff peaks. “If I feel you down there, will I find you wet for me?” he asks, his hands sliding down your skin to your hips, his fingers wrapping into the sides of your panties. A soft gasp fell from your lip as you looked down at his hands, your hands going to help. “No…use your words pet” He whispered low, you cunt clenching against nothing, wetness soaking through your panties.
“Ye…yes” you murmured breathlessly.
“Good answer,” he grinned, sliding your panties down your legs, his fingertips light against your legs. His hands came back to your waist and he lifted you up, flipping you onto the table, laying you back. You gasped out, your hands going to his shoulders, your hair splaying around you. “Now let me see, do you think you can take me?” he asks, his hands on either side of your head, holding him up, his thick hot cock resting between you on your stomach. You gulped slightly, not so sure yourself if you could take him. Yes, you had had sex before but Toby was definitely the biggest by far. He grinned at you, leaning down to bite lightly at your jaw. His hands went to your knees, pulling your legs around his hips before sliding his hand down in between your folds, teasing at the wetness there. “What a good little girl, already so wet for me,” he smirks, watching as his middle finger slid into your tight heat, causing a groan to fall from your lips, your head falling back against your table. “So tight too…I’m going to split you open pet, just fuck you til you can’t stand…how does that sound?” he asked, pressing another large digit into you, his fingers not waiting to give you the chance to adjust before he’s scissoring them into you as he pumps them.
“Fu…fuck,” you groan out, hips pressing against his hand, he stilled his fingers, his free hand pressing your hips down to the table.
“I asked you a question”
“Y..yes”
“Yes who?”
“Yes…” you looked at him and bit your lip deciding in that moment what to call him. “Yes Daddy” You were almost one hundred percent sure you had never seen as beautiful a moment of lust as the one that passed over his features when you spoke. His fingers went back to their movement, he added another, his thumb rubbing your clit furiously as if he wanted to make you cum instantly.
“You’re going to cum on these fingers and then I’m gonna wreck you on my cock and you’re going to thank me for it at the end…understand?”
“Yes Daddy,” you whimpered out, “Please…Please”
“Cum for Daddy little girl, cum for Daddy” Your hips raised off the table, fingers clutching the table, white knuckled as your orgasm ripped through you, a scream of ecstasy falling from your lips as he pulled his fingers out, pumped your cum over his hard dick before lining up and thrusting into you causing an aftershock to rip through you from the tip of your toes to the crown of your head. He pulled out and thrust again, and you could understand what he meant when he said he’d wreck you. The sting was delicious, the stretch heavenly and the way he grunted overtop of you had all 5 senses on fire. He pulled out again and this time when his hips slapped to yours he bottomed out with a low growl.
“Fuck me,” you groaned out, tears stinging your eyes.
“I thought I was,” he teased with a chuckle, pressing a quick kiss to your lips. He ground his hips against yours, his pelvic bone rubbing deliciously against your clit, causing you to gasp. “You like that little girl? You want Daddy to play with your clit?”
“Please Daddy…please play with my clit” You begged, your fingers going into his hair. He grinned, pulling your left leg up over his shoulder to get that much deeper as his fingers went to your clit circling tightly against the harden nub.
“You gonna cum on this cock?”
“I’m gonna cum on your cock Daddy,” you moaned, that familiar coil tightening in the pit of your stomach. “Please let me cum” He snapped his hips to yours his fingers working on your clit.
“Go ahead little girl, go ahead” You buried your face into his neck as you gasped out, your pussy clenching tightly around his cock, your cum sliding down your thighs, coating him as he coated your insides with rope after rope of thick hot cum mixing with yours. He collapsed onto you, panting, your fingers running through his hair. You stay like this for a moment before he’s pulling out of you licking his lips as he watches yours and his cum dripping from you. “God that’s a beautiful fucking sight.” He said, swooping down to throw a kiss to your lips. He grabs the sheet, wiping himself off before doing the same to you carefully, before giving you his hand to help you sit up. You do with a groan, watching him as he got dressed silently, meticulously in his white jeans, and denim button up. He slid his fingers through his hair before putting his white fedora over. “I promise you he’ll have your money here by the time you’re ready to go…” he said walking over to kiss your forehead. “Here,” he said handing you a business card. “Call me” he said before leaving. You looked down at the business card, gold embossed Toby Grisoni before laying back on the table with a sigh. Happy ending massages might just be your new favorite thing.
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20 - Shepherd’s Apostle
The world faded into a thick haze, like a memory I wanted to recall but the further I reached for it the harder it was to grasp. The hard carpet dug into my cheek, it was soothing to lie down like this and just put everything out of thought, out of mind. It was impossible to describe how tired I was. But I had to press on.
I couldn’t open my eyes. Everything had turned dark in an instant and I was alone, in silence. But for a dull throbbing. My heart, I decided. I felt my steady breath, about the most of my movement that I could manage. Okay, just for a while I’ll lay here, then I’ll be ready. I couldn’t recall where I was headed initially, but I was standing on the ground floor watching the lobby.
There was a charge in the air. Palpable thickness as if something was happening or was to happen, I was on edge. People were presently on their rounds, dressed in clean uniforms, formal. They looked like normal people.
I managed to crack an eye open and gaze blearily into the musty carpet. The House of God. That’s what I was looking for. The dull tingle worked its way through my marrow, it unnerved me. I closed my eye and returned to the fresh ground floor, just as people were running. I felt liquid trail across the bridge of my nose and soak into the carpet under my face. Blood soaked the floors, the desks. Organs twisted, bodies crumpled, skeletons splint from skin. The red droplets glistened oddly under the bright lamps.
One of Murkoff’s security held a small Beretta between his hands, he turned the gun wildly on the walls and floor. The glass of the upper hall cracked but held against the bullets. I’m sure there should be a deafening clamor, but I can only make out muffled voices, sounds you’d pick up on underwater. He turns his weapon on a colleague as the individual is shredded from the inside out, muscle and lung drench the carpet below his skin. The panicked man shoots the mist as it evaporates.
I open my eyes and stare at the carpet. I want to get up, but the pain in my skull refuses to relinquish its hold. If I lay here in this doorway for too long I will be discovered, and without a doubt, killed.
When I shut my eyes, I’m in a white room with the mangled pieces of a body beneath me, wet blood spilling down the drain of a shower. The water left running swirls the black and reds into anemic pinks.
My eyes snap open and I lay for the longest time gazing at the doorframe across from me, my heart beating fast. What the fuck did that come from? Reports, files I had read too deep into. Too deep. Therapy was going to seem like a vacation.
I waited for the throbbing to subside to a tolerable degree, until I felt stable enough to get up on my feet. I couldn’t afford to lose anymore time. The sewers, filthy and diseased, the shears Trager used to tear off my fingers. I had contracted something and it would kill me, unless I got out. I needed X-rays, antibiotics, I needed some real sleep!
Documents flashed through my mind — MKULTRA, the Hypnotic therapy, the Walrider legend, autopsies revealing tumors of lead. I was feeling sick all over again, but I had to push on. Take steps. I was so close, I could feel it!
There was still no way through the blockade of furniture crammed throughout the hall. My hand ached as I recalled the chair that had fallen on it, I learned my lesson. It was rare when that happened, but sometimes I did. I was defeated and I admitted it, I wasn’t sure what I was admitting to, but I was done with this bullshit. I eyed the fracture in the wall on my right, metal sheeting had been torn out of the plaster and left on the floor. Looked like a path the patients used, due to the blockade. I squeezed through, first spying the patient, or disciple I should say, bent over a grungy bed and praying. His head low and hands clasped tightly in silent confession, I couldn’t make out what he was mumbling about. His lips might’ve been damaged or he had lost his teeth… or his tongue.
A shiver trailed up my spine, and I held my face as the wave of pain it brought subsided. How long could I go on like this?
Till I die.
I wouldn’t die. I refused to. The tangible quality of my old proclamation and what it meant, hit me with such a force that it sent me stumbling back into an empty bookcase. I froze, fearing the commotion would set the man off. He made no note of my presence. I recovered, consciousness whirling. The camera was between my palms, trained on him. The room was simple, only the bed and a nightstand, chair, desk on one side, on the other, a lamp cracked on the floor. What more did he need?
These rooms had originally been the residences of the staff before everything turned bad. Small but cozy, employees provided with everything they would ever need, by the ‘non-profit’ Murkoff cooperation. Now with the former occupants slaughtered and marinating the halls, the formerly suppressed rise up to take control. How poetic. I realize that not all of those affiliated with Murkoff deserved what happened, there had been good souls concerned for the cooperation’s victims. They simply didn’t want to see what was happening around them. People were like that. It was human.
The disciples legs were scarred, as were his arms, I imagine that was the least of the damage done. I crept from the room, shutting the door softly behind me. I still was wary of them and what intentions they could have. Trust no one.
It looked as though I went ALL the way around, from where I initially came up the stairs, just to get to this side of the hall. I scoffed, but nothing to do about it. Just keep my steady pace and try not to falter. I at least had a small break, though I couldn’t recall what I had eaten ten minutes prior. I remained famish and the humming grew worse, as though there really was a choir in this hall behind one of the doors. I stood beneath the bright lamp and swayed. If I kept my heart pumping, I would be fine.
The hall reserved its featureless standard, the walls extending through the shadows that both welcomed and rejected me. To my left was another lavatory, I poked in and went through the stalls, startling flies from their nest. As I ventured from the glaring lamps, the little buggers gave up their pursuit, further reinforcement that the light remained my greater foe.
One door on my left had a starved and shirtless patient, in prayer as I’d seen the two before. The room was simple as I’d come to expected, bed, a desk, sometimes chairs. The room down from his was much the same, aside from rain and thunder pouring through a shattered window. I gave each room I came upon brief audience, filming the people, before I moved on to the next.
I was shocked by the number of people absorbed in this process. Was it a mass Hallucination driven by MKULTRA? I couldn’t tell anymore. It was clear they had faith in Father Martin and his preaching’s, but why? Questions buzzed through my thoughts as I tried to piece what I did understand together, but felt I was missing some vital component to the machine. That eerie trill. The sound I heard, a choir or was it a hymn? It didn’t matter, maybe they were hearing it. I was tempted to ask what it was, but I feared one might answer. I feared someone would notice me at last, and I would be trapped, lost and confused as they brought about my bloody conclusion.
Aside from the room full of cold rain and thunder, I could see no way out of here. Let alone, I didn’t know what I was doing here aside from ‘witnessing’ the disciples of Father Martin lost to prayer. I revisited the rooms, in perpetual fear that the trance would break. But I had nothing to lose as far as I could see. One room I stumbled into with its withered disciple, holding his head high as he spoke, had a folder placed on the desk beside the door. It was filled with pages, most held a handwriting style I was familiar with.
“I am an unworthy supplicant, who can serve our lord only by feeding our lord. Please take me, Walrider. Let my shepherd’s Apostle see it and spread it with his lies for a greater truth. Your time upon the world has come. My flesh longs for your beautiful wraith. My blood is filled with you and waiting to be set free. This is my prayer. Write your gospel in my flesh.”
For some reason this absolution unsettled me. What was it he planned to do? I feared the truth behind these walls.
With no other path available, I decided to risk the harsh rain in the window. The patient remained absorbed in his words, and as expected did not notice me as I climbed onto the soaked bed and stepped out onto the windowsill. A flash of light cuts the sky, I shut my eyes from the sting and saw images I didn’t want to see. Everything I wanted to forget. I placed my hand on the jagged glass and stared down, my footing uneasy.
Three stories up. If I fell from this height I might not die all at once, but I’ll pray for death. The lightening flashed, brightening the courtyard and thunder clashed against the stone building. I forced my feet to move and hold my weight as I slipped along the icy wall of the Asylum. Shapes flashed at the edges of the broken garden, I risked tucking my camera away as a precaution. Light stretched from the windows at my backside, but there was not enough radiance to brave the merciless storm. My heel slipped and I stared down, water trickled over my face and damaged hands. The sky sparked and shrieked, and below, I thought the skeletal shape of a person was there staring up, waiting for my body to fall and hit the pavement, starved to behold my guts torn loose to wash like crème down the drain. I squeezed my eyes shut, fighting away my dreams. I focused on the ledge, on the dark coloration of my coat. Water splattered my pants and shoulders, but the eaves kept the torrent from soaking me to the bone.
I trembled with something beyond cold and fear when I climbed into the next window. A lightly decorated room with one bookshelf, a portrait on the wall, and a bed with another of Father Martin’s disciples speaking to the Walrider. I didn’t want to think of the blessings mad men asked for. Maybe just the simple relief from living and life, maybe to think as other men do? Or maybe for the world to be as they are.
The door of the room was open wide, encouraging me along. I kept caution close as I checked around the frame.
God hates sickness
Was scrawled in blood on the wall in large letters. Candles lit below flicker calmly, despite the draft on my backside. The wall flashed with light as another scream of fury came from the storm.
My left was blocked by stacks of metal shelving and chairs, I wiped the water from my hands as I struggled to fix my grip on the camera. The only relief I could find was that my right hand didn’t seem to be swelling anymore, but the index finger and middle finger were stiff and painful to test. I considered myself fortunate, despite it all.
More messages and candles awaited on my right, competing with the artificial light of the corridor that refused to diminish. A cross was drawn on the wall, the blood peeling down appeared fresh. A plate on the wall read simply Chapel. That would be a House of God. The corner bent left and I leaned over to find, yet more candles beside the wall and the message above
God hates money
I spun back at the door slamming shut, and the firm click of the lock splint my head. Curious, I returned to try the handle and found that indeed, I was locked on this side. Away from the ground floor and the elevator. I sighed. My luck. It was a good thing I was never one to buy into stocks.
Voices drifted from the hall, and that sharp pain returned to the back of my head causing my vision to blur. I massaged my brow with my palm and continued, turning the corner and resumed the path now cut cleanly for me. The soft candle flames became an almost welcome change, compared to the harsh blaze of the NV. It made the walls and floors look soft and bearable, in spite of everything I knew that was buried in these grounds. I pause and looked to my left, upon familiar scratching in the plaster. I recognized the form and some of the words “Rest in peace” “He did not kill” Father Martin’s preaching? The camera scolded my hesitance, but I waited it out to gain a clear image. I was nearly beyond my limit, but I could hold out. I was good at holding out.
God Annoys…
I blinked.
God always provides a way
I looked from the wet message and the cross, to the scarred patient standing before me, blocking my path. Head bowed and a candle clasped between his hands, he was emaciated to the point I couldn’t believe he was standing. And the smell. This… was the first fucker to lunge at me from a wheelchair!
“Am I ready?”
I stepped away from him and looked over my shoulder, to where the voices echoed from in somber reverence. A chapel, candles lit and burning above a pristine tile floor, an entrance chamber that led directly into the cathedral. It didn’t appear very large, with carved beams arched under a plain white ceiling, tinged yellow from age. It was a simple structure, but ornate and charming in its own way. I closed one eye and pressed my hand to it, the sound I couldn’t escape. I had to keep my senses keen. Beside either stained glass door that opened into the main wing, stood a twin, glowering on me as I gave one a look, then the other. I straightened myself out to the best of my ability, I couldn’t appear defective to them.
“You are. We will join the Walrider in just a moment.” That was Father Martin. I was staring from where I stood, and I think he was nailed to a cross.
Holy crap, what was I doing here? I debated on just leaping from that window now and accept the fate meeting me beneath the rain, then I recalled the door was locked and I was trapped here with these people. Whatever was to come, I would fight until my heart was ripped from my chest. Which, given circumstances, could be very likely.
I took a deep breath and proceeded into the chapel, directly between the twins as they tracked my slow movement with their hostile stare. They reserved their right to freely expose themselves, though I kept my gaze forward and my camera close to my side. My hardcore reporter instincts told me soon I would need it. The doors gave a firm CLUNKof finality as I approached the podium, and the disciples of Father Martin. They were disturbed but not aggressive, they, like those I had passed to reach this wing, were wholly oblivious to my presence, or had been requested not to acknowledge it. Their attention was set on the man nailed to the wooden cross; I don’t doubt they were upset by this revelation. They spoke and murmured, plead and mourned. It was all together and all at once, I couldn’t make out a handful of what they were saying.
The crucified man gave a sharp gasp at my approach, the act so sudden I recoiled. “My job. You alone shall escape to tell them.” Father Martin paused to gather his breath, he must have been in a good deal of pain. “This is your penultimate act of witness. The promise of the prophets was always the freedom from death,” he groaned. “And here it is.” He pulled at his arms, as though trying to relieve the pain, despite there being no escape. My only response was to blink.
The patients clustered about him, and the collection of timber at his toes. They pray and spoke in soft sentences, some bowed and sobbed. For the Walrider? Or for Father Martin’s Gospel? The accumulated resonance caused the hair to bristle on my neck.
I moved to the side into the pews and sat down, making sure the camera was fixed on Martin. The frail patient from the hall stepped around the podium, to stand near his Prophet and gazed at him with sunken eyes. Martin whimpered, and resumed speaking, “You will watch and record my death, my resurrection. And together we will be free.”
Martin let his head drop onto his shoulder and took another tight breath. “You are no longer in any danger. I’ve fixed the elevator. It will take you to freedom. We will all of us be free.” I had to set my head down on my arm. That sound…..
“Now, my son.”
I jerked my head up when Martin’s tormented shrieks echoed off the high ceiling and walls. The patient that was holding the candle lit the timber beneath his feet and the Priest was on fire, twisting and howling in pain as his robs burnt like dry cotton and his flesh scorched and popped. I gawked wide eyed trying to hold my camera steady, trying to keep myself from tearing out of that seat and racing away. My stomach knotted at the harsh sting of burning flesh, reminding me sharply of the scorched bodies burning in the cafeteria. I clasped my free hand over mouth, it was all I could do to keep from buckling forward. Not here, not at a time like this.
His raving sobs finally died out as he succumb to smoke inhalation, or the heat cooked his brain inside his skull. He gave an oily groan before he went limp and the flames settled into his bubbling flesh.
When I shifted to reach for my notepad, I realized with a start I had bitten into my palm. Not deep, but the edge of my teeth had cut into my stained flesh and blood seeped from the shallow tears. I wasn’t sure what to make of that, or the fact I hadn’t noticed before I moved.
“I can’t believe Father Martin one-upped Jesus Christ himself in shitty ways to die. And I don’t believe I’m going to miss him. A way out. If he’s telling the truth, now I’ve got a way out. And a story to tell. He wants me to spread his gospel. I’ll tell the whole fucking world.”
I sat a moment watching the patients mourn for their Prophet, and weep for his sacrifice. I didn’t know what they would do now without their Guide in this twisted world, but I didn’t want to hang around and find out. I gathered myself up and slid out of the pew. I took up the key gleaming gaily on the red velvet podium.
The twins stood still behind the stained glass doors. From a safe distance I stopped and observed them. Would they end it now, with Father Martin gone? Was this the time they would conclude the chase? I checked the room over, finding no other windows or doors, aside from the ones they stood behind. If I could lure them back into this room, I could get around both of them. If they cornered me, that was it.
I walked forward trying not to look at them, I needed to get by and find my way out before I was stabbed in the back.
They pulled the double doors open simultaneously to my approach, and I dithered before continuing forward. I doubt they needed weapons to kill me.
The bald one on the right clutched his head, angry or plagued by the sounds. I stepped between them quickly and got halfway down the hall before I remembered the door was locked. Or was it? I passed the final messages of Father Martin only to find the door was still locked tight. I returned to the chapel, looking to the twins for some sort of guidance but quickly gave that up when I spied the area, beyond where the wheelchair patient had been poised. A bookshelf, among other furniture pinned in the archway of the hall, encyclopedias and other tomes spilt from the shelves, clearing enough space I could wriggle through. But above was a vent in the ceiling, its panel off. I could reach it, and they couldn’t follow.
I stuck the camera in its hoister and grabbed the edge and kicked at the wall until I was safe inside and felt around for my path. The piece of fabric shifted oddly in my gash, I poked around the backside of my shirt and felt only mild dampness but no excessive bleeding. I squeezed my eyes tightly and crawled along the weak metal. I was getting out. Damn Priest guy said I could go, I would not stick around.
But damn, I couldn’t believe Martin was gone. In no way did I feel safer with his suicide, on contrary, it didn’t feel like anything had changed. What had he been trying to prove? The only fact I could take comfort in, was that I wasn’t the one nailed to that cross. Didn’t mean I was no longer in danger, notwithstanding what he proclaimed. I’ve heard that song and dance before. Probably why it felt like his death was so unreal, in truth nothing had changed. The whole event had meant nothing to me.
The notion left a sort of emptiness inside me. I don’t know how to describe it.
The next flue I had to force with my weight, as result I nearly fell through to the floor below. I managed to clamp my arms over the metal sides, before the rest of me tumbled out in a painful heap. I dropped and stumbled to my ass, god damnit. I sat letting my body settle and gave where I was a scan. The shelves and furniture I bypassed should keep Martin’s disciples from catching up to me anytime soon. For the moment, it was safe to bide time and plan my direction. I needed to find that lift and get the fuck out of here. It was in the other wing of the Asylum, outside the kitchen. I could reach it through this side, down this hall?
I stepped into a patch of light from the lamps gleaming in the hall on the right, and sat down to think. If I was to reach the elevator, I needed to go through the kitchen, but I couldn’t, that door was locked. I needed another way around… I could really use a map.
If my sense of direction was right— I looked up as a dark shape began from the opposite end of hall. I couldn’t make out who it was. A twin? How did he find me? But as I gawked, the figure picked up speed, upon spying me huddled in the sloping light. I knew who that was.
I lunged to my feet taking the bright hall on my right, as he gave a thunderous snarl. I could feel his steps quake through the floorboards of the Asylum. His chains churning with his pace, gaining three steps with every one of mine. Needed a place to hide, needed distance! The hall was perpetual, same as those never ending roads in your dreams that extended into eternity. I glanced at the dried blood splattered at my left, staining the upper wall and floor, the hard copper hit me as I gasped. Above, the lamps flashed against my skull, doors lined the walls every few steps, many nailed with plywood and planks. He snarled and huffed gaining, his ire snapping at my neck. I couldn’t bring myself to pause and try doors, I wanted to run forever.
When would the big fucker just let up! It was obvious he wasn’t one of Martin’s followers. All along, had he been against the Gospel of Sand? I couldn’t know! That was not important! He would kill me regardless my affiliation with the Church of Walrider!
The hall came to an abrupt end, reluctantly I tried a plain door on my left expecting it to be locked. Trapped at long last, after I had succeeded at beating their game. I barely turned the knob before I shoved the door in, grunting against the sudden lurch in my rib. I swung the thin barrier shut after me and checked through the nightvision, but saw no worthwhile space to hide. The room was well lit, particularly on the left side where a flat screen sat on a table. I could crouch behind the two love seats set to view the screen, but three steps in and Chris would have me.
The door cracked in the frame, I was amazed it held when the raw rage slammed into it. I dashed across the room as the floor and walls shook, my head spinning, bits of light flittered through the cracks in the door as it absorbed another blow. I curled up in the darkest corner behind a thick armchair and stared through the NV as the visor buzzed. A final shattering blow and Chris plowed through, tumbling to the floor before climbing to his feet. I shrank down behind the couch and watched as he scanned the room over, huffing through his teeth he began pacing to the left. It was my right, the way I was facing him—
“On point.”
While his back was turned, I crawled towards the gaping portal. One long step, I set my foot outside the doorframe and slipped out. I could hear the noise of the big fucker chains as he turned, to check the side of the room I had hidden. He’ll make the conclusion, I needed to buckle down and think. Where was it I needed to go? What doors were open? I had to rattle handles.
The next door I tried was on my right, it opened into a small office with a desk, and the usual dead plant mandatory to Murkoff’s memory. I entered and listened as the big fucker reentered the hall, grumbling about the pain of living. I shut the door gently and sat in the dark struggling to gauge his position, as his steps grew louder and heavier. I flipped the NV off as he continued past my door, and down the hall a ways before his steps halt. I could hear my breathing, but Chris was as silent as death.
I jerked back when the thuds of wood cracking vibrated through the hall. I braved pulling the door open a crack and let some light in, he was not far, just across the hall. With a final swing of his fists the pitiful door snapped apart, he kicked the pieces aside as he stepped into the small room. His backside quivers as he pants, blood leaks from deep cuts that never healed in his broken skin.
As before while he’s distracted, I took the chance and slipped out of the room. He was going to hear me, he would detect my movement, smell me, something. He would turn around and grab me, and that would be it. I’ll be pulled apart, my body torn out from under my head like so many of his victims. My last moments, watching him toss my flailing torso aside.
But Chris was still examining the dark cubicle of office before him, and I made it past the doorway without a creak from the floor. Overhead, before the intersecting hall hung the large, bold red words EXIT. This was the way. I was nearly there!
Getting away from the patients and their mass congregation had helped to high levels. My head still throbbed but it wasn’t the twisting pain it had been an hour before. I wouldn’t be too run down once I returned to civilization, I might be able to get medical attention before I had to start answering questions.
All right man, focus. Pat yourself on the back later, first things first. Find the way out. I was still so fucking lost, it was a crime.
I ducked into a doorway on my left when I picked up on Chris’ chains slithering into the hall. Once I was on the elevator, I was home free. Warm heater, familiar surroundings, just all around good things. Keep thinking good, clean, healthy thoughts Miles. Keep positive.
A lavatory, very little to hide in. Most the stalls were shut, blood on the tile and flies lapped at the sticky mess. Their wings hummed impossibly loud against the hard walls as I disturbed their perch, I was terrified the sound would give me away. I ducked into the stall on the far end and climbed onto the toilet. The lamps blazed down warming the edges of my coat and neck, I didn’t need the camera. Neither would the big fucker if he decided to roam through.
Chains dragged across the tile clinking with each step. Images of the sewer and bloated bodies became my vision, pellets scuttling through pipes. Shadows and shapes, faces in static. I pressed my nose into my bloodied shoulder and tried not to breath. Stay calm. Stay. Calm.
“Where?…fuck.” He sounded dubious.
If he would just leave. You’re seeing things like the rest of us. Go look somewhere else, this place is empty.
I cringed when the first stall swung open. Damn. The next door creaked open, and I situated myself to crouch on the bloody toilet. One.
Two.
Three—
Chris pulled the door open, seeming genuinely surprised to find me there. He made a strangled snarl through his mutilated sinuses and lashed out, as I sprang at the top stall and propelled myself over the side to the far end of the bathroom. I hit the floor and tumbled, searing white pulsed through my eyes and my concern went immediately to the camera even as I shoved my feet under me and charged out the door.
“Can’t let contamination reach local town…” I ducked down as I passed the doorway, barely missing his arm as he tried to swat me. His wrist struck the tile near my head, dust and brick cracked under the impact.
I stumbled out the door, hands clasped over my head fearful he’d knock it off next. The broken segregation frame swept around me as I breezed through, first turning to the vent I initially dropped down before reminding myself of how bad an idea that was. I pivoted and dashed into the dark hall. The big fucker emerged from the lavatory, and snarled my way as we made eye contact. I brought up the NV as I felt myself tilt, I could see light at the halls end but I was having difficulty keeping my balance. The big fucker was somewhere behind me keeping pace.
End of the hall. End of the hall. Door. A door that leads to the cafeteria. I had no idea where I would wind up. I needed another lounge, a room with space I could maneuver or hide from Chris. It could have just been me, but it felt like he was desperate to kill me at this point. The idea caused my throat to dry out, I gagged as I panted. But I felt elevated, that perhaps Father Martin had been earnest and that I was now done with this place. That I was to be free once I stepped out of those doors.
Had to reach them first.
When I hit the light, I took a sharp left through the last doorway entering into a room full of tables and chairs stacked everywhere, some scattered over the floor. The cafeteria! But I was still skidding in the direction towards the windows, my momentum out of control. The patient that had been here staring out the muggy glass was now absent, or dead. The rain that once furiously struck the glass had diminished to some degree, the luminous beads of water now less and thin.
The door. There was a door on the left side of the room, across from where I just blazed through. Something strained in my knee as I twisted, and spun about as the big fucker came charging into the room after me. Door! Had to get to the door! I zipped around tables or chairs, struggling to maneuver anything between us, to slow him down. The big fucker bellowed, and ripped the obstacles away like weeds in the garden, I heard several crash into the darkest reaches, echoing under the high ceiling. I was only thankful he hadn’t the presence of mind to throw one my way.
I had plenty of distance on him by the time I reached the door. I twisted the handle—
Locked! Door was locked! How was I supposed to reach the elevator?!
That was to be the least of my concerns. I cued in on the heavy breath of my pursuer as he sliced through the room, and felt his dead eyes on the back of my head. I barely whipped aside when he swung out, grazing my back, I lost consciousness for an instant as my brain sputtered out. The chains stunned my shoulder and I tumbled to my side, my vision blurred as sensation swung back into me at full force. All I could make of Chris was his shape looming over me snarling, his eyes blazing. I swore, they burned like fire in the dark.
“Get up!”
Fuck you! I crawled pitifully on my hands and knees across his boots to curl up under the nearest table. The big fucker took it in his hands and tipped it over, sending chairs crashing across the floor. I bit the camera strap between my teeth and ripped it off my hand, and scrambled away as fast as I could while he hurried around to intercept me. If I kept the windows in sight I could see where the table legs barred my way.
He couldn’t see where I was exactly, he could only hear my panicked breath as I shuffled in the cramped dark. In response, the fucker gripped another table and hefted it up then slammed it down over my body. But the locks where the legs fit in didn’t snap away completely, I lay there for a moment believing I had died and the big fucker might’ve thought the same. He was panting hard, hissing through his exposed teeth as he wandered around the set of tables seeking to find my broken body.
My mind was wracked with questions, my ears buzzed and my bones tingled with that tremendous calamity. Out? Where was out?
I reached a trembling hand up slowly and took my camera strap from my teeth, I was nearly pinned on my stomach with just enough room to squeeze out. But the fucker would hear it in the dead silence that consumed the room. I coughed and tasted copper, I don’t think a lung was punctured, at least I couldn’t feel it yet. I turned my head scanning the room where the door was locked. Damn inconsistencies. A light shone from a square slot in the wall above, where a vent had snapped off. There. That was it! He can’t follow me.
The big fucker moved to the other side of the table, ones he hadn’t tipped or slammed down, and began pulling them out and scoping the floor beneath. I slipped free of the broken table and pulled my body out from under the line of table legs. The big fucker must’ve seen my shape when I stood, he barked out a cry as I dashed to the fallen vending machine and clambered up. I was a little tipsy when I stood on the slick plastic cover, but managed to snag the flues edge and haul up into the tight space. A cold pain dug into my side, but I pushed the sensation away as I paused to gather myself. I was in one piece, mostly.
Below, Chris snarled his contempt for my success, but I knew deep in me, this would be our last encounter. I spared him a brief glower, the closets to pity I could express for him, before I turned and crawled along the top of the vents rigged from the ceiling. The muffled growls faded in my ears, as the familiar tingle resumed residence. It wouldn’t last, I assured myself.
I never thought I’d be so happy to be in a kitchen before. A revisited and empty kitchen, but it was tame territory. I carefully climbed off a cabinet and hit the floor, wincing at the pain in my ribs. It was okay, nothing a little rest and no movement wouldn’t help. That’s all the doctors ever said, there wasn’t much else that could be done. I took some slow, easy breaths to acquaint myself with the pain. I’d feel even better when I was in my jeep with the heat cranked up, and this place far-far behind me.
I found the door at the other end of the kitchen and half expected the damn thing to be locked, though it was clearly open and the dark hall visible from where I stood. Across, at only a few steps, the lift waited, with nothing in sight, no psychotic patients, just the wavering shades that haunted my memories. I kept shuffling the worst case scenarios to the forefront of my mind, geared for the despair that I was now accustomed to. What could possibly go wrong now? Nothing. Unless the computers had a massive crash in the hours I’d spent lost in this hell of an Asylum, my challenge now would be hacking the security systems.
I groaned when I realized, I’d never opened the main doors. I hadn’t even begun, damn Martin had to drag me off…. It was all behind me now. Get to the Security room, hack the system, and say sayonara to this fuck awful place.
I dithered before entering the welcoming gleam of the lift. I had bad experiences with elevators. Bad memories. Once I was inside, I’d be trapped. But I was only riding to the ground floor. Before I could have another thought on the matter I stepped inside, and turned to the panel. I set the key in the lock and gave the panel a firm punch and let the metal gate shield me in.
No insane doctors to interrupt me this time. No burning cafeterias, no deformed giants with fuck started faces, shrieking specters, or cannibalistic twins. I was out. Done. Gone. Bye bye Insane Asylum!
The elevator made the short but noisy descent to the ground floor and stopped. I put the camera in its hoister and tried to pull aside the gate. It should open, shouldn’t it? Of course it would. I peered through the large gaps and saw, indeed those doors were locked. I was hyped and ready to start this, it wouldn’t be easy, but I would get it done. Sooner I started the better.
The gate should open now. I poked at the panel and tried turning the key, maybe it unlocked it? Or maybe I shouldn’t have done that. The lift shifted and began descending all over again. I looked up alarmed as the exit, my doors to freedom vanished from sight.
No. No-No-No-NO! What was this? The elevator was fixed, I was supposed to get out, up there! That was my floor! Stop! I tried to pull the key from the slot, but it was stuck tight. Safety precautions and such, I was locked in! Where the fuck was I going?! Darkness filled the tiny space I occupied. The basement! I could find my way out of the basement easy. I vaguely remembered the layout, and there would be light too.
But I knew I was not going to stop at the basement. The lift continued to descend, and the air changed.
I stepped back and crouched down resting as what seemed like hours passed, but in truth it was only minutes. I had no idea where I was now and had a feeling I would never know. It finally ground to a halt and I glanced up as the gate slid back, allowing me to exit FINALLY. I glared beyond the doors, into a near pristine white brick corridor, above lights flashed and pulsed, a glitch in the wiring. I shut my eyes against their irritating glare.
My lip curled back over my teeth and I pushed myself up to stand, I set a hand to my side where my ribs warned not to push it. I was hurt, I needed to get out. What more did this place want from me?
A “penultimate act of witness” as ‘Father’ Martin put it. His last words. I should have been more keen to pay attention to his speech, he had told me precisely that ‘my job’ was not done with his death. Idiot! You walked right into this! This is all on you Miles! Walked into Hells Kitchen, and now you’re eating what they’ve served! If I die—NO! No. No. And NO! I am not going there! I will get out of here because I refuse to have endured EVERYTHING these bastards fabricated, and then die at the VERY end of it! I was getting out! And I would make sure the world knew what I went through, what they’ve done to all these people, and what they tried to cover up!
But I still had doubt. I stepped through the doors and gave my new surroundings an indifferent glare. It was brisk, the air slightly fresher than the upper floors, a lot of tubes and thick cables ran along the walls. Probably recycled air. But…it was there. The old decay, the stale tang of rust and death. I was not done, not by a long shot.
I stumbled and brushed against the wall as I collapsed to my knees and sat there, staring at the two doors before me. The strobe light overhead flickered but held its illumination. I lowered my head and exhaled a coppery sigh. Not by a long shot. I raised my butchered hands to my face and buried my eyes in my palms, seeing only black. The cool, enveloping black that had been my ally throughout this entire nightmare.
Would there be no more shadows for me to hide in?
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Mount Everest Ain’t Got Shit On Us (Fezco x fem!reader, part 19.) - The Aftermath, Part 2.
Description: You were always told that your life will be as you wish it to be if you’ll study enough. That it will pay off if you work hard. And some people were given you like a scary example of what will happen when you don’t obey. But sometimes it feels good to disobey.
A/N: Inspired by Post Malone’s Circles because I feel it is a happy song to sing when everything goes to shit.
Warnings: Suicide mentions, psychologistic and police investigations, Rue being fucking high.
Word count: 3.7 K
Read the rest here, babe: PART 1 PART 2 PART 3 PART 4 PART 5 PART 6 PART 7 PART 8 PART 9 PART 10 PART 11 PART 12 PART 13 PART 14 PART 15 PART 16 PART 17 PART 18
Masterlist and declaration: H E R E
Tagging: @charmed-asylum, @jeyramarie, @pantherxrogers, @analia-analia-analia
If you remember and I remember correctly, I told you about the lottery called life. The one you can't win, the one you can't give up on. The worst lottery you could actually be a part of.
Sometimes, it does happen rarely, you get a second chance. You scratch the ticket and hold it in your hands, looking at it with an opened mouth; or that's the thing you're expected to do.
Sometimes, your life isn't such a lottery as it is a secret formula that you need to be careful to manipulate with. There is a lot of numbers and letters you don't know the meaning of and every little change in it can make an explosion which will make your life completely different. That usually happens when you win the second chance in the Russian roulette.
You couldn't exactly name what had woken you up. Then the only thing you could remember was that you felt how your feet got almost extremely cold and that you were freezing at the moment.
Your body and mind felt dizzy like it didn't even belong to you. Every muscle in your body hurt like fuck. You couldn't even move. And your knee wasn't exactly in its position either. What... The fuck was going on?
The last thing you could remember was that it was a November night and that you went to Fezco's after... Fran pushed you on a fucking cabinet. And then something happened - but to be honest, your brain was too tired to show you that shit. Plus you were drugged our of your mind - both the night and the morning you have regained consciousness.
When you looked out of the fucking window, you were trying to see what is out there for a long time, it was all white - you were afraid that you have cocaine hallucinations, but it was... Snow. It was fucking snow.
You tried to look around nervously, furrowing. As you wanted to talk, your mouth felt extremely dry. As you wanted to move, your muscles didn't respond. But the change in your biorhythmic called the nurse to your room. She went into your room at a slow pace, playing with her keys, but just as she saw you, it looked like she just saw a ghost.
“Doctor Mortensen?” - She screamed at the top of her lungs as she ran through the corridor where you laid. - “Doc? She has wakened up. That young girl. Yeah. That one with the bruised liver and stomach, fractured and elbow and knee. Yeah.” - She spoke quickly as she thought that you don’t hear her clearly. But it made you freak out - your breath raised up and you tried to speak. At the moment, you finally knew why you couldn't talk. It was that something you had in your mouth and nose.
“Hello, miss Y/L/N.” - A young, female doctor with Asian looks came to your room with a smile. She was beautiful, at least you saw her as beautiful, and she started to control every inch of your body. The needles were stretching your veins in a numb way, straining your skin on both your knuckles and your elbow hole. It should hurt, yet you were numb to it. Oh right. Probably morphine. - “ I am doctor Mortensen and I'm taking care of you for the last two weeks of your hospital stay. How are you feeling?” - She started to take the tube out of your throat - wonder that you didn't throw up at the spot.
As soon as it was out of your throat, you started to cough. Before you could speak, the nurse gave you something to drink. It hurt and scratched so much.
“How long have I been there?” - You looked at the doctor and she changed the vitamines which were pumped into your blood flow to help the nurse out. It was a young doctor, still full of those false, sweet ideals and maneuvers.
“Since the day it happened, since the thirteenth of November. Are you able to recall anything that happened that night?” - She asked you worriedly. You wanted to chuckle and ask her, why she asks you such a dumb question, but then you stopped and actually tried to remember what happened.
It was completely blurry, the only thing you knew was that you were scared to your death - and the numb pain and cold feeling going through your body.
“I... I actually can’t remember a single thing, doctor. I’m sorry.” - You said quietly and continued with drinking the water from the glass the nurse gave you.
“Okay then, I will send our psychologist, doctor Hill. He will help you with recovering your memory and trust me, you need to remember.” - Doc Mortensen smiled at you. You slowly nodded with a frown. - “If you feel dizzy, it is completely fine. We tried to give you not much of morphine, sometimes we gave you something different, so your body wouldn't get addicted to it. But if you feel signs of dizziness, headache or an urge to puke, just tell our nurses. Your body is starting to detoxicate itself. Ok?”
“Yeah.” - You smiled silently. Everything started slowly - nobody was allowed to visit you, the first two days you weren't even eating normal food; only drank water and ate something... Weird. But as soon as you could talk normally, eat normally and sit without having morphine injected into your veins, doctor Hill was sitting in your room with a notepad on his knee and a pen in his hand.
It was a young, smiling and seriously handsome doctor with a well-built body and black-ish hair. He had white doctor trousers and a black t-shirt. You smiled, because you would try something if you weren't dating... Fezco.
You stopped yourself from eating the pudding they gave you to eat. Fezco. Something happened to Fezco - you had a feeling that you saw it. That terrified you.
“Hey, miss Y/N. Can I call you by your name? Is that a problem?” - Doctor Hill asked patiently. You nodded and tried to concentrate. You were weird since you have wakened up - quiet because you barely had talked to anyone except nurses or doctors and your brain was surrounded in a mist. You tried to remember what happened that night, but something was keeping you away from it.
Today is December 18th, alright? You were in a coma for the last month and your body was bruised, you had broken bones, fractures, hematomas, and ruptures. How are you feeling now?” - He tilted his head to his shoulder like a little boy and smiled.
“Doctor Mortensen told me that my knee is still kind of out of place and my knuckles are a bit fucked up too. Plus I have something with my head and my memory is fuzzy.” - You talked slowly and then you looked next to your bed. They gave you some morphine again because you told them that your knee is still weirdly hurting. the truth was you loved to drift off from the reality. You had something you called the “Rue” tendencies. - “But I’m kinda good thanks to my little pal here.”
“I see. Can you remember anything that happened that night? Feelings, anything that took place?” - Doctor asked you again. Doctor Mortensen couldn't give you the therapy you needed - as she said. But you could talk to doctor Hill.
“I remember that I was at home and that something pissed me off, so I left to go into my boyfriend’s apartment. I know that he had someone there, someone he knew. And after that, I know I was terrified. But I told you, it's fuzzy.” - You exhaled out loud and closed your eyes.
“Okay. We will try something now, okay?” - Doctor Hill sat closer to you and wrote some information to his notepad. - “Now, lay down or at least lean down to the bed, close your eyes and imagine your bedroom. Are we there?” - You hummed in response as you concentrated. - “Let’s say, that... You are listening to your favorite song, just relaxing... What happens next? Say whatever comes naturally to you.”
“A knock on my window. Somebody knocks on my window.” - You answered and fully dive into your own mind. You had only a huge tee and panties on, laid on your back and listened to a song as the leaves were falling down from the trees. It felt so real. It felt so real that you would say that you were there once.
“Right, great. Who is it?” - The doctor’s voice slipped into your imagination. - “Would get off the bed for me and try to look at them?”
So you imagined as your feet slipped off the bed and you stood up to look into the garden.
“I would expect Rue or Jules because Fez doesn’t have the time to come... But... I think... That it is my sister.” - You furrowed and didn't know why she is in that imagination.
“Alright. You have one sister, am I right? Her name is Fran.” - You hummed again. - “Will you let her in or not?”
“Of course I would, its cold outside and she... She isn't looking well.” - You nodded and Doctor wrote something down.
“What happens next?” - His voice slipped into your ear again.
“She lays down to my bed. We are talking a bit, but then she is mad... At... Me.” - You say slowly and then you stop yourself. At that moment, some memory opens up in your head. Fran was drunk and drugged again when you two talked. You had an argument and then she pushed you down on a cabinet. No. You couldn't tell that to the doctor. Fran would have problems because he would tell to other people.
You were lying to a doctor. Jesus fucking Christ.
“Why is she mad, can you tell me?” - His voice intensified. He knew something. That motherfucker knew that she hurt you.
“No. I don't know... But after that... I get up and slip on my tee I forgot on the floor. Mom asks me if everything is alright, I tell her that it is okay and because I am angry with the argument I had with Fran, I exit the house by the window. But... I hurt my head. My temple is bleeding.” - You open your eyes slowly and take a look at the doctor. You were able to manipulate a manipulator with a degree. You sly motherfucker.
But after that, you only knew you saw Fez at his place and that he had someone over. And after there, there was only terror. You were truly in the dark just as much as Mr. Young's doctor was.
"The great thing is that you don't have any sort of amnesia. But it is really important to me that you'll be completely honest with me, alright?" - Hill asked you and looked you in the eyes. - "Were you honest with me?"
"Doctor, I didn't even remember that any of it happened and you just got it out of me. Can I even be more honest with you?" - Your eyebrows rose a bit. You were lying, of course, but you couldn't just tell him that your addicted sister fucking pushed you. That would be fucking disgusting to just tell on her. You still felt the need to protect Fran, still giving you a chance... After a chance... After a chance.
"Well, try to focus on that night. You need to tell us everything you know. There was a murder near the place you were hit and the police think that your side of the story could be useful. They'll come and talk to you." - He got up with a sigh. Could he tell that you were fucking around? You didn't know. You hoped he wasn't having a clue. - "But enjoy your pudding now, I heard that they're delicious. And I have a surprise for you." - He opened the door to your room nonchalantly and gestured to someone that that should come in. - "I'll see you tomorrow again, Y/N."
It was Rue looking like a piece of fucking crap. You could tell since the first move she made that she's high on something again. But she was a good pretender, so the doctor didn't notice. She nodded at the doctor and shoved her fists into the pockets of her coat.
She waited until he left the room and she shut the door.
"Ya had an appointment with doc hottie as well, huh?" - She said with a contented smile and sat down on me chair opposite of you, where doctor Hill sat. - "He tried to convince me dat drugs are bad before I went to rehab. Sorta nice guy."
"Rue, what you've taken? You're fucking high. And don't you try to lie to me." - You furrowed at her and she just giggled. Her eyes were kinda dead, and if you wouldn't know her, you wouldn't even notice that her face is strangely sweaty and swollen.
"Lex or Val. Not sure." - She put her ankle on your bed, grinning at you. You rolled your eyes and put the pudding away. Rue immediately took it and started to eat it as if she hasn't seen food in a couple days. She looked like it.
"Why are you here? High in a hospital, for god's fucking sake?" - You whisper-shouted at her angrily.
"Gee, haven't talked to yo ass in a month and the first thin' yo do is to yell at me? Fuckin' rude, man. I ran fuckin' out of school just to see ya." - She laughed. She was out of the fucking world. - "Came to tell ya somethin' before cops come to play truth or dare with ya. Fezzy..." - She breathed out loud. You immediately sat up and the beeping became more intense as you started to panic.
"Is he alright? Where is he? He's the one who..." - You started to cry and high Rue leaned in to hold your face in her hands. She was giggling, shushing you. You didn't find that fucking funny at all. But Rue was too high to know. So you pushed away slightly since your hands were barely working.
You were getting rehab almost every day so you could feed yourself again and walk. Your muscles were too tensed and stuck since you laid in a bed for a month.
"He's fine. That boy is fine and he can't wait to see ya, babe. He's the one who shot fuckin' Mouse down." - She said with a nod. She wasn't lying at that point. Fezco was completely all right and carrying on with his drug business. And he cried when he heard you woke up.
But there was no time for that fucking love story you two have. There were more important things to go through at the moment.
"So if yo don't want his fuckin' ass rotten in jail, better listen to every single word Imma tell ya." - All of a sudden, Rue looked sober and serious, which made you serious too. But you were still sobbing - Fezco was somewhere out there, fine and alright, safe and sound and still in love with you. You couldn't wait to see him.
"We won't talk about dat part where Fran pushed ya on the fuckin' cabinet because she's already too fucked up to do any good. Leave 'er out, ok?" - Rue’s lips came too close to your ear as she started whispering. You cleaned your face from tears and nodded again.
"Yo need to say that Mouse made ya do everything. Tell 'em I and Jules were there and that we saw it. Nate and Maddy were waiting outside to pick us up for a late-night brunch or whatever. Mouse made ya do PCP, repeat after me." - She took your hand and held it tightly.
"You, Jules and I came to Fezco's. Mouse made me do PCP and Nate and Maddy were waiting for us. Why the fuck should I talk about Nathan? Was he there?" - You wondered and Rue rolled her eyes.
"Better not be an ass to dat dickhead. He's helpin' out big time. Okay. You took da PCP and then you don't have any idea what was up." - She stared you down.
They have already told the police that you were drugged, but you needed to confirm it, so they would not take you seriously at all.
"Okay. I, you and Jules went to Fezco's, Nate and Maddy were waiting outside, but when we were inside, Mouse made me took a pill. After that, I don't know anything?" - You repeated, not sure if you told every detail right.
Rue sat back, smiled and still hold your hand. Jesus fucking Christ, she thought. You were the last piece of the puzzle.
"Should I tell that he had a gun?" - You rose your eyebrows at Rue.
"Oh yea, I forgot dat itsy bitsy thin'. He had a gun. Good thinkin'. How did ya think of dat?" - Rue looked at you. It would be fucked if you didn't tell them he was aiming at you.
"He was a dealer. They always have one." - You smiled sadly. Then someone knocked on your window - it were to police officers, a young lady, and a tall man. You nodded at the unsaid question and they came in.
"My name is Anna Diaz, this is my colleague Cole Treshman, we're from the local police department. May we talk to you?" - She smiled. You liked her, she looked nice and you liked that.
"Sure, it's about the night, right?" - You said quietly with fear in your voice. Anna just simply nodded, not adding anything else.
"We have to ask you to leave, miss..." - Anna looked at Rue like she knew her from somewhere. Rue just stood up and shook her shoulders playfully, not giving Anna a proper answer. Rue leaned down and kissed you, then she left the room. That didn't make Anna change her posture or the look she was giving you.
"It will be quick and simple, we just have a few questions." - Treshman said in a cold voice and you nodded. So there was the nice and bad good tactic, nice.
"Can you tell me what happened, sweetie?" - Anna came closer and sat on your bed partly.
"So..." - You coughed nervously. Anna just nodded with a smile. Like it was alright to be nervous. - "It's pretty blurry, but I left the house after having an argument with my sister."
"Were there any friends who were with you?" - Anna asked with true concern. You shook your head a bit.
"Not at the moment. But when I got to my boyfriend's apartment, his name's Fezco, Jules and Rue were there with me." - You nodded and looked at both of them. Anna nodded and looked at Treshman.
"Was there anyone who you planned on meeting?" - Treshman asked.
"Yeah. Nate Jacobs and Maddy Perez. We were supposed to take some food and chill a bit after that. I was fucked up from having an argument with Fran." - You nodded again.
"What is your relationship with those two? I mean... Are they your family? Friends?" - Anna asked with her eyebrows rose up. Jesus. Have you fucked up something?
"Both of them are my classmates. We know each other from school." - You said quietly. Fucking Nate Jacobs. Couldn't they beg to help anyone but Nate and Maddy? Obviously, they couldn't.
"What happened after you entered your boyfriend's door? Can you tell us?" - Treshman spoke from the other side of the room; he quietly stepped to the window and looked on the falling snow.
"There was a guy, they called him Mouse, and he had some pills with him. He had a gun and made me took one of it. After that, there's a blackout in my head. I don't know what happened after that." - You said quietly, looking at the both of them with your best innocent face.
“So you don't know who was shooting? Could your boyfriend have a gun with him by any chance?” - Treshman asked in a calm matter, but you could tell from the position of his body that he is disappointed in your utterance.
“I don’t even know that someone was shooting.” - You sighed and looked him in the eyes. - “And my boyfriend never told me that he is possessing a gun. I don't believe that he had one with him.”
“Well then,” - Treshman wanted to ask one last question when the silence was interrupted by Anna’s walkie talkie starting to break as someone spoke on the other side. She gave both you and Treshman a look and the man stood up in front of your bed while she walked onto the other side of the room.
“I can hear you. Yeah. I just finished with the young girl who was hit by a car while drugged. Yeah. I understand - we’re on our way.” - Anna looked at Treshman and smiled at you. But she was stressed all of a sudden.
“Thank you for talking to us. We need to leave now.” - She said loudly but then turned to Treshman as she thought you cant hear her. - “We have a reported attempt at suicide. Fran Y/L/N. Trying to get any information out of this girl is pointless, shes traumatized and doesn't remember a good portion of that night.”
But blood in your veins froze down completely.
Fran tried to take her own life.
#fezco euphoria#rue bennett#rue euphoria#euphoria hbo series#euphoria hbo#mount everest ain't got shit on us#the aftermath part 2.#fezco x reader#fezco hbo#fezco imagine
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Ok, secrets in return.. 6, 10, 15, 17...
ooh a lil secret exchange...... like little kids at a slumber party..... love this energy
6) how is your life different now from two years ago
hmm.... july 2018.... tbh not a whole lot has changed since, then, graduate school has a funny way of being all the same all the time. but i can think of a few...
school/job-wise, i became a doctoral candidate in june 2018 which was just over 2 years ago and that was cool, and my research was finally published in december 2019 which kicked ass. actually the project that was published wasnt even finished until october 2018 so i guess that too. my mentor and i have developed a really great mentor/mentee relationship that i attribute a good amount of personal growth to, bc for like the first time in my life i have someone actively helping me quash a lot of self doubt.
personal life-wise, hmm... in october 2018 i had the plate in my knee removed bc it was severely impeding my recovery and making it hard to walk. i figured out how to sit down on the floor and get up from the floor and go up and down stairs one at a time with a railing, then without a railing, learned how to crouch about halfway to normal, built up my stamina to stay standing for about an hour with minimal discomfort whereas before i suffered if i stood for 10 minutes. the girl that almost killed me was finally arrested and convicted and put in jail which doesn’t fix or reverse anything but still felt like some kind of justice.
and then personality wise i am just a little less afraid of getting things wrong. still terrified and still impacts my life, but i am able to give things a shot instead of dismissing them outright. led to me finding out i’m pretty good at some stuff i otherwise never would have tried. i’m also a little less afraid of asking for help or setting boundaries. therapy has that effect i guess.
i’m also way more long-winded than before, i feel like, as presented here. oops. i also feel like i’m much more forgetful and scatterbrained than before. not sure if it’s from stress, or a natural progression of taking on more obligations and learning how to balance them, or a long term side effect of having who knows what pumped into me for a month straight three years ago. maybe all three?
10) do you believe in ghosts
nah. i don’t really have a wordy explanation as to why i don’t so you get a break from the wall of text from the previous question.
15) what is your favorite memory
questions like this are hard bc i have a pretty bad memory and favorite memories only come to me when i encounter something that reminds me of it? it’s really hard to call upon specific memories. but i’ll at least try to think of a nice one from recent memory, i’m sure it’ll be far from my favorite but that’s okay.
hmm... oh actually my most recent birthday (abt 2.5 weeks ago) was really really nice? nothing super special happened; i got up, i went to work, i went home and bought myself an ice cream cake and video called my family. but throughout the day i had more people wishing me happy birthday than i ever had in my life. i’m a fairly active member of the rq official discord and i had no fewer than 2 dozen people immediately send happy birthday messages if they caught the implication from someone else (maybe more, that server is huge and it’s hard to keep track). and i’m in another, smaller server (you may be familiar uwu) where i’ve pretty fairly recently gotten to know a new group of people that seemed to pretty quickly welcome me into their friend group and i got some really nice birthday sentiments there too. and then at work i didn’t even really tell anyone it was my birthday, but i’m friends with one of my lab mates on facebook and he must have had birthday notifications on because he came by and wished me a happy birthday
obvs the last few months have been really isolating for just about everyone, but tbh it’s been especially hard for me bc i don’t really have many friends to begin with and definitely like no friends in my home town so my minimal social contact of like just small talk at the store and only having real conversations with coworkers being taken away has had me fairly down? but apparently over the past few months i have slowly been submitting myself to the mortifying ordeal of being known, even just a little bit, and reaping the rewards of being loved in return, no matter how small, felt really nice and made it a really special day uwuwuwuwu
17) what ‘small things’ things terrify you
i know i have some intangible existential fears that would definitely seem trivial to some people but see above point about having a really hard time calling upon specific memories, and also i’m in a good mood so i’m not gonna try too hard. but off the top of my head two silly weird fears i have are 1) heights and 2) having people around me start singing.
1) i know heights are a very common fear/phobia but you don’t understand. i’m talking “i will literally freeze in place if i try to step onto this 4-inch stepstool, like seriously my conscious mind will not be able to lift my second foot onto the step, like it’s bolted to the ground” PETRIFIED of heights. i cannot stand on anything my brain perceives as not-solid-ground. this means i’m actually okay in airplanes and things like the st louis arch. i actually love that shit, i’ll look down at the ground and enjoy the view all day. but the second i have a single doubt about my ability to stay upright, fuck the fight/flight/freeze response. we are on 24/7 freeze/freeze/freeze response LOCKDOWN.
2) i’m talking flash mobs, i’m talking karaoke night, i’m talking people singing happy birthday to me. the idea of it puts me in “find an escape” mode, and being in it gives me the worst second-hand embarrassment ever, even if it’s all in good fun and there’s no reason for anyone involved to be embarrassed. this extends even to movie musical numbers (i actually skipped the scene in the tavern in disney’s tangled bc it gave me weird anxiety) and shit like hearing someone i know from another medium begin to sing (this is why it took me so long to check out the mechs and also why i cannot listen to recordings of friends singing as much as it would mean a lot to them for me to do so). idk if there’s a name for this phenomenon or if i’m the only person on the planet with this weird almost-or-maybe-complete phobia.
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The Best Of
The Goldfinch AO3 tags
Deepest apologies to the authors. Probably of interest only to @wellntruly and maybe @antiquesfreaks
this is so niche, if a single person reads it i will be happy, it is completely self indulgent, Imaginary Rain , [theodore decker voice] i'm a homosexual having a panic attack, also xandra is there I guess, ITS ABOUT THE YEARNING, theo has a crisis because thats his Brand, theo's a whole mess, boris is a slightly different mess, theo is a little bitch, sad times with boris &theo what else is new, apocalypse in a very american sense, they live in Costco, they r just liddol creatures, i am a SLUT for water, this is basically just a love letter to the desert and the sky, Alternate Universe - No Pennywise, Not really a fic as much as it is an experiment
Romantic Face Punching, i mean.... that's literally a tag so i'll use it, It's bittersweet my dudes, boris waxes poetic about his bird, russian vampire that glows, it was way too easy for me to project onto Boris, theo said 'nothing rly happened in antwerp', i said 'you are an unreliable narrator and a Fool please step aside', Theo Decker should be considered his own warning, Theo Decker's Toxic Masculinity, rip to donna tartt but I'm different so they're lesbians now, there will be smut but it will be artsy, and theos parents but who can be asked to put them, Hurt No Comfort
Well maybe a little bit of comfort, The briefest and barest mention of Boris's fuck-me pumps, some real basic bitch fic but I had to get it out of my system, I promise this isn’t as depressing as it sounds, the sharp ache of memory, the thrill and terror of getting what you want,
Excessive Drinking
Heavy Drinking
Drinking to Cope
Alternate Universe - Normal High School, Magical Realism, take shot every time theo says fuck and/or is gay and bitchy, its a TURNBULL AND ASSER SUIT, Gratuitous Fleetwood Mac Referencing, slight drowning mention, underage lots of things because its them, google translate Russian, Underage Drinking but like this is the Goldfinch we’re talking about, theo has been to therapy and knows one (1) distress tolerance technique, Theo's too neurotic to top but can unrepress just enough to bottom, i like to believe donna tartt would condone this if she believed in love, They really put that scene in the movie huh, TOO MANY REFERENCES AND I AM NOT EVEN SORRY FOR THEM
donna tartt i just want to talk
and he cries his eyes out and they listen to the magnetic fields, nostalgia for two days ago, they listen to music and flop around, they're a little drunk but when aren't they, Boris POV bc theo pov is difficult and also depressing, theo isn't as canonically repressed here oops, theo did write boris a letter he just never included it bc it's gay, i hope they know i would die for them, @ donna tartt u too bitch i love u, Heavy pining you guys, i went hard with the hand holding in this, They've kind of gotten their lives together!, Boris still works in art crime though, they're drunk
but what else is new, idk if this is good or if im just on my third drink, is it homo to want to kiss your best bro? maybe so, no homo your way out of this decker, boris is basically a pillow princess but who’s surprised, smoking in bed is an activity for french movies and repressed gays, we don’t admit to feelings we emotionally repress like men, obviously boris is into some kinky shit, boris is dead sorry
very sad actually, the world needed some boris' pov so i did my job, i'm not projecting onto theo he's just me, i'm not even projecting onto theo anymore he's literally me, i managed to write some sort of happy ending, it was way to easy to write from theo's pov and i'm worried, interpret the end how you want i guess, it was so easy to project onto theo it's kinda concerning, They weirdly don't do drugs in here, the usual shit that happens in goldfinch, the boys go rollerskating, Like Really Fucking Sad, flangst city bois, theo is a clingy drunk, if only he were like this when he’s sober, Theo committed suicide, I mean Theo really did it, Boris didn't stop him, Theo may not like this, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Theo is a pretentious dick, Mental Institutions, one instance of projectile vomiting, Questionable Marriage
#These are just in reverse chronological order#linebreaks to make it readable and occasionally for emphasis#I've read precisely none of these but will try to when my brain works#the goldfinch#found poetry
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It’s been several weeks now since the fight for Phos’ life and Maso hasn’t left the pillow Lounge even once. Not like he has anywhere else to go. Now that Calypso was gone, there weren’t any despair-related activities he would be assigned to, nor was he in the mood for bothering other people.
Especially since Stellan was tracking his moves. Partially, his refusal to go somewhere stemmed from a sullen attempt to bore Stellan and Neil into forgetting about him. If he never did anything exciting, they’d move on to other things and leave him alone so he could find someone to take the bracelet off.
Then he realized they were probably not watching him and simply had a signal set up for when he got into trouble so they could make out in peace, and the joy of being boring faded.
It’s not that he was depressed, per se, not really. He was just...unsure of his next move. And waiting with a purpose sounded much better than wandering around aimlessly until something interesting happened.
The first week he was anxious someone from the MiW might come back, or Stellan would give him another lecture, but it was relatively quiet. Then he started telling himself it was relaxing, sitting there doing nothing but resting in pillows. A pitiful lie.
After two days of trying to sleep (just to see how Phos did it), his restlessness caught up to him and he started moving the pillows around, building little caves until he grew bored of that too.
Worry followed shortly after, then anger, then regret, and finally just listless state of ‘whatever happens, happens.’
As long as no one bothers me, I’m fine.
How luck would have it, his peace didn’t last long.
While Maso sat staring at the broken TV one day, wondering how he could upgrade it with the few tools he had at hand and hopefully shadow proof it so it could work even after Phos’ expected return, he heard some rustling in one of the hallways.
Phos! Was his first thought and then, The MiW? No wait...Stellan? Shadow Mariella? Can shadows even mimic footsteps?
Maybe she was still with that hopeless Alice. Maso hoped it wasn't them, because the last thing he wanted to see was a pawn of Calypso coming to gloat.
The door swung open, letting two figures step inside the Lounge and Maso realized he had judged too soon. Any pawn of Calypso was welcome instead of them, hell, even the Absurdist would’ve been a much better sight.
“Told you the bracelet still works!” Anastasia said, sounding way too pleased. “He’s still here!”
It took Maso a second to recognize the Stanley by her side. He had changed since the last time he saw him, less glitchy and the worn employee 427 outfit (which Maso assumed he had worn ironically) was now replaced by a suit, which looked just as ridiculous.
His expression twisted into one of annoyance.
“Jesus Christ.”
“Not quite,” the Stanley smiled.
“Maybe he meant me~”
“Seriously, are you two here to gloat or something. Fuck off. I’m not hurting anyone sitting here so whatever twisted plan you have to torture me into getting better, I’m sure there are loooots of doomed Bradleys you can use them on.”
“Oh yess,” Anastasia let go of Stanley’s arm and, honest to god, marched over the pillows in five inch tall platform boots, somehow not twisting her prosthetics in the process. “We have a hoooooorrible torture plan for you. So horrible, you’ll never call yourself a masochist ever again~”
She plopped down next to Maso, not so subtly blocking the exit should he try to jump up and run.
He glared at her. “You’re a disgrace to Bradleys everywhere.”
“I know!”
Stanley joined on Maso’s other side. He didn’t sit too close but Maso still scooted backwards, keeping a close eye on his hands in case he tried to paralyze or pump him full of hope again.
“We aren’t really here to torture you, Bradley,” He said in a softer voice than what Maso was used to from him. At first he thought Stanley was trying to appear as nonthreatening, although taking a closer look revealed that he didn’t look as strong as he did back when they first met. Probably why Anastasia was accompanying him.
“We’re here to talk.”
“That’s just as bad. I’d prefer torture.”
“Oh, any kind~?” Anastasia smirked.
“No! The pain kind, do any of you even listen to me when I say I’m a pain Masochist. As in physical pain. God! You just hear what you wanna hear, don't you?”
“That would make three of us, kiddo.”
“Yeah, fuck you, An.”
“Maybe if you ask nicer-”
“Kids,” Stanley interrupted. “Can we get on with it now?”
Anastasia piped down and Maso reluctantly turned his attention back to Stanley. All his arms were crossed tightly over his jacket, but at a moment’s notice he would be prepared to stab then both with any blade resembling object in his pockets. Stanley was weak but Anastasia was there to be his bodyguard and Maso knew that he’d have to take them both down if he wanted to escape.
Just want to talk, my ass.
“Calm down, Maso. We aren’t going to hurt you—“
“Then get on with it already so you can leave faster.”
Stanley sighed. “Fine. First of all, I wanted to apologize for...my obsession with you. It was creepy and desperate. You’re not even the Bradley, or my Bradley. So I shouldn't have come after you like that. Though I don’t apologize for paralyzing you, annoying you or giving you hope.”
His expression gave way to a bratty smirk. Maso was only slightly surprised to see he still had it in him to be a little shit, despite the beating he took from Phos.
“Okay.”
“Okay! So next, we wanted to offer you company if you are going to go get healed at Seraphim’s. I know you’re scared-”
“No I’m not-”
“Stellan confirmed you are, so yes, I know you’re scared and probably won’t go through it alone but it might help having someone you know with you!”
“It really won’t, I hate you both.”
Stanley looked pleased. He glanced at Anastasia, who took it as a cue.
“Okay, kiddo, listen up.”
Why is everyone calling me a kiddo, I’m probably their exact fucking age. If Maso wasn't annoyed yet, he was now.
“As a Spencer, I know what you’re going through.”
A derisive snort. Anastasia continued, unfazed.
“I’ve also been changed by past events in my life, ones that physically and mentally scarred me for life, or so I thought.” She glanced down at her prosthetics and despite his skepticism, Maso couldn’t help but listen.
“I was stuck in hell for months, a kind of hell that no Office can compare to. And after I was rescued, I was certain of only one thing: I didn’t want to be alive for another second. I asked my rescuers over and over again just to mercy kill me and let me be in peace, but they never listened. After immediate attention to my wounds, they gave me emotional first aid. I was put through all kinds of physical therapy and medication, the first year all against my will because I didn’t want to get better. I just wanted to curl up and rot.
But despite my struggling, it did help. And I realized I didn’t really want to die, I just wanted to stop hurting. My supervisor knew this and she told me they were willing to fix me up, give me new limbs and change my body as I saw fit, if I would promise to give living another chance. And with that deal, I did.”
So she blackmailed you into going to therapy, Maso wanted to say. He was determined to find flaws in her ‘redemption’ story. It made him feel uncomfortable, not that he would admit it. Was he supposed to believe he could have the same? A pill here, a touch of magic there and suddenly he was as good as new, Perfectly Normal Bradley Spencer, here to make the world a better place or some shit like that. Yeah right.
An continued, unfazed by his musings.
“Therapy wasn't easy, even after I decided I’ll give it a try. I hated it for a long while, but eventually the changes were noticeable. I stopped crying so much, I was able to talk to other patients at the Hospital, I found interest in hobbies again and even got my punning abilities back~”
Stanley snorted in the background.
“Either way! I know you’ve heard this from lots of people, therapy and medication helps along with a goal in mind. And I think you know we aren’t making this up to trick you into a straight jacket. But you’re holding yourself back because you’re too scared to make real goals, Maso. You think you will change into a different person. I didn’t. I changed into a different person under torture, but I changed back into my true self when I let myself heal. And I’m quite happy with how I am today. I will never want to go back to the broken husk of a person I was years ago. Even when I thought the trauma was the only thing I had left.”
She gestured around him. “You already know your true self. It’s not a sad little fusion moping around and self destructing is it?”
“Maybe it is,” Maso shot back.
“Nah, it’s not. Because if it is, then why would you still be here? Why aren’t you out there sulking and bothering Stellans and throwing yourself off platforms?”
“...well, because—“
“Because the real “Maso” or whoever you are now, isn’t that guy who wants to cosplay a corpse so badly. It’s the guy who almost literally raised Heaven and Earth to save the life of his friend. Or who spends his time taking apart broken TVs to see if he could make something interesting out of it. A robot, perhaps? A little automatic pranking device?”
Maso made a face. “I was thinking of a scanner,” He muttered.
“See!” An’s eyes lit up. “You wanna have friends who recognize you as one too, and you want to build stuff and make puns and steal people’s clothes to get your hair ruffled. If you really just wanted to die, you’d be dead already. If you didn’t want to change, you would’ve disappeared and quietly made it happen.”
“It’s the hope-”
“Hope isn’t a parasite, Bradley.” Stanley cut in. “It’s a natural state for a soul to have. If your soul only had one emotion, it wouldn’t know how to survive. You basically starved it of the thing it needed the most. Nourishment, in form of happiness, hope and comfort. Your soul isn’t true when it’s full of despair, it’s just starving.”
“You- you guys are just saying that to get me to come to your stupid hospital so you can fix me, aren't you?”
“No. We’re not dragging you anywhere. As we said, we just wanted to talk.” Stanley stood up and An followed suit.
“If you want to come with us, you’re welcome at the hospital. We have a garden, a library, workshops where you can build and craft to your heart’s content. You’ll get your own room and personal doctors assigned to you.”
“But I can’t leave whenever I want, can I?”
“...no. If you do come, you will have to stay there until you have shown improvement or signs of stability.”
Maso scoffed. “Then no.”
“It’s your choice, for now. But then I would look into other options. And I think you already know which one would work.” Stanley gave him a curt nod. “We’ll see each other around.”
With that, he turned and left for the door, back the way he came from. An lingered a while longer, studying Maso quietly.
“...what?”
“If you aren’t ready to change for yourself, think about what’s best for Phobos,” she said after a moment.
“What will you do when he comes back? Cling to him and do nothing? What if he needs help? Are you prepared to give him some hope and comfort too? If you aren’t, what will you do when he decides you aren't worth the trouble? You should then consider finding a purpose that is more than just existing around other people. You can’t help your friends if you’re nothing but a puppet following the motions.” She turned to follow Stanley out.
“Think about it, Maso. What kind of friend do you even want to be?”
And then they were gone. Maso fell back onto the pillows feeling strangely annoyed and tired. He wanted to say it’s because they were testing his patience with their whole ‘we can save you!’ spiel. But as much as he hated to say it, there were things that rang true, things he’d have to think about deeper.
What kind of friend do you even want to be?
What kind of friend, indeed?
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