#was in a fugue desperate to make this 4 the past 3 days

[d0d0-b0i]

would like to see this happen

[wistfulcynic]

Another Brick In The Wall, Chapter 9

a/n: Prepare for feels

Summary: Emma Swan, sheriff’s daughter, mayor’s niece, quarterback’s girlfriend, is the undisputed princess of Storybrooke High. She is smart and confident and used to getting what she wants. What she wants is Killian Jones, the new boy in school. But Killian is not easily manipulated, and reluctant to allow the dark secrets in his past to touch the girl he is rapidly falling in love with.

Rating: T

Read it on AO3: Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9

Tags for: @darkcolinodonorgasm @jennjenn615 @hollyethecurious and @resident-of-storybrooke

Chapter 9:

Killian stood at the bathroom mirror fiddling with the knot of his tie, wishing he didn’t have to spend this already nerve-wracking evening feeling like he was being strangled. “Is this really necessary?” he grumbled. 

“It’s a formal party, little brother,” replied Liam, coming up behind him and batting his hands away from the knot. “Yes, you need a tie.” He adjusted Killian’s tie himself then placed his hands on his brother’s shoulders and smiled at their reflections, feeling a small pang at the sight of them standing there together. Killian had grown so tall over the past year, now nearly as tall as Liam was himself, and dressed in a suit with his hair neatly combed he looked so grown up. Liam wanted to hug him but refrained, knowing that in his current mood Killian would scoff and pull away. Instead he stood, suddenly assailed by memories and by the wild thought that what he actually wanted was to go back in time and hug the little boy his brother had been the first time Liam had felt a similar pang.

The day of his mother’s funeral was bright and sunny, which made Liam angry. Not even the weather was cooperating, remaining unseasonably warm and steadfastly refusing to turn grey and dark to match his mood. He had been scrambling for days to arrange everything, the church, the flowers, the service, the burial. It was far too much to take onto his young shoulders but he had no choice. His father had started drinking on the day the doctors proclaimed the tumour inoperable and terminal, and hadn’t stopped since. Liam had been so busy, so overwhelmed by the tasks and his grief and his anger at his father that he’d had barely any attention left for Killian, who fortunately at six didn’t fully understand what was going on around him and was content to play quietly while Liam handled things. When the dreaded day finally arrived they stood together before the casket, his brother’s small hand in his, Killian dressed in a suit and tie but with his dark hair falling over his forehead into his eyes. There hadn’t been time to have it cut. He tugged on Liam’s hand. “I can’t see,” he whispered. 

Liam lifted his brother up in his arms, watching Killian’s big eyes grow bigger as he took in the sight of their mother laid out in death, seeing the moment his brother grasped that she was gone and wouldn’t be coming back. He watched as Killian fought his tears for as long as he could —he always tried so hard to be brave— and he saw the moment when they would be held back no longer. Killian blinked rapidly, gulped, then turned his face into Liam’s shoulder and sobbed. Liam held him close, feeling his small body tremble and heave as he wept. 

He had always loved Killian, of course he had, both because and in spite of the decade between them, always had time for him, never minded him tagging along behind or his endless questions, but in that moment Liam’s heart was flooded by a surge of love unlike anything he had ever felt before. He knew then that he would protect his brother with everything he had in him, would lay down his life to that cause. 

In that moment, Liam reflected now, he had become Killian’s parent. 

As with any parent he had made mistakes, hadn’t always lived up to his own standards. He had failed to protect Killian from Milah, failed even to notice that there was something amiss with him, although with hindsight the changes in his brother’s behaviour and attitude had been glaringly obvious. Almost overnight he had gone from an energetic, talkative boy to a sullen and moody one, responding curtly to questions and frequently disappearing for hours on end. Caught up in his investigation of Admiral Gold, Liam had simply shrugged all this away as the effects of adolescence. He cringed to remember it, wishing he could kick his past self, or maybe give him a good punch to the jaw. 

At least he had taken immediate and decisive action once he’d learned what was going on, thought Liam, removing Killian from Milah’s influence and taking him as far away from her as possible, then ensuring that he had the professional counseling he would need to deal with what he’d been through. He had done everything he could yet he still worried that it wasn’t enough, still ached every time he saw the shadows that lurked behind his brother’s eyes, still blamed himself for their presence.  

Killian cleared his throat, jolting Liam out of his reverie. He looked again at their reflection in the mirror, noting his brother’s exaggerated smirk. 

“Are we going to get going, then?” asked Killian, in an exasperated voice. “Or are we just going to stand here all night admiring our faces? Mine’s all right, but I definitely don’t want to be staring at yours for the next six hours.”

To hell with it, thought Liam, and pulled his brother close, squeezing him hard. 

“Ugh, Liam, get off, you’re wrinkling me!” Killian, as expected, shoved him away. “If I have to wear this bloody thing the least you could do is not crease it.” 

Liam released him from the hug, rolling his eyes as Killian ostentatiously smoothed his jacket. “You look fine. Good even. Emma will swoon.” He grinned as Killian turned bright pink, then his expression softened into seriousness. “I just love you, little brother. You know that, right?”

Killian performed an eyeroll almost identical to Liam’s own. “Of course I do. I love you too.” He grinned. “Even though you’re annoying as fuck—”

“Language!” 

“—and you’re going to make us late. Can we go now?”

“Lead the way, brother.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As soon as the Joneses arrived at the Swan house, they were engulfed by warmth and noise and energetic welcome, people eager to take their coats and get them a drink. Despite this effusive hospitality Killian was still nervous and antsy as he scanned the room to see who was there. To his relief he soon spotted Ruby and Victor —he had never been so glad to see Victor Whale’s smug grin, he thought— and was just turning to tell Liam that he was going to talk to them when his brother stopped dead, his mouth dropping open and his eyes nearly bugging out of his head. 

“What the devil is wrong with you?” asked Killian, astonished.

“I— um, er, I—” Liam swallowed, blinked, and shook his head. “Who is that?” He nodded in the direction of a petite brunette standing a few feet away, talking animatedly with Ruby’s grandmother. 

“Um, Miss French?” ventured Killian, certain Liam couldn’t be referring to Granny but baffled as to why the school librarian would inspire such a reaction in his brother. 

“Miss French?” echoed Liam. “The librarian? The one you’re doing your independent study with?”

“Yeah?” Killian was completely confused now. “Why do you ask?”

“Er— no reason,” said Liam, fidgeting uncomfortably. “I just— um, thought she’d be older.” 

A glimmer of comprehension was beginning to dawn in Killian’s mind, and he had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop from breaking into an enormous grin. “Would you like me to introduce you?” he asked innocently.

Liam seemed to choke on his words again and before he could recover Killian had caught Miss French’s attention and beckoned her over. 

“Hello, Killian, I thought I might see you here,” she greeted him with a friendly smile. “How have you been enjoying your holidays so far? Is it very different from England?”

“Very,” said Killian wryly. “More snow, for a start. Though I would imagine it’s a lot more different for you.” 

“Well it’s summer in Australia, so yeah, pretty different,” she laughed, and from the corner of his eye Killian could see that his brother’s ears had gone bright red. The Jones family tell. This was excellent. 

“Miss French, this is my brother Liam.” Killian dug his elbow into Liam’s ribs, jolting his brother out of what appeared to be a fugue state. “He went to Australia several times when he was in the Royal Navy.” 

“Really?” Miss French turned her attention to the elder Jones, and Killian could swear he heard Liam’s Adam’s apple scrape across his dry throat. “What places did you visit?”

As Liam attempted to choke out anything resembling a coherent answer, Killian spotted Emma’s mother bearing down on them with a tray of drinks and moved to intercept her before she could interrupt and possibly extinguish the sputtering sparks of his brother’s romance. “Let me take those for you, Mrs Swan,” he said, flashing her a brilliant smile. She blinked for a moment, slightly dazed, then returned it. 

“Why thank you, Killian, that’s very kind,” she said, angling the tray so he could take his hot spiced apple cider and Liam’s hot buttered rum. He turned back and handed Liam his drink, just in time to hear his brother stuttering something about the Sydney Harbour Bridge, to Miss French’s evident amusement. 

“Oh thank bloody fuck,” muttered Liam under his breath as he took the mug. 

“Language!” admonished Killian, smiling angelically as his brother glared daggers at him over the mug’s rim. “I’m just going to go talk to Ruby and Victor, see you later Liam, Miss French.” 

As Liam stared helplessly at his brother’s retreating back, the vision of loveliness that was somehow the high school librarian spoke again. Desperately he tried not to think about how her voice was like a song, and focus on her words instead. 

“I’m actually glad to have a chance to speak with you, Mr Jones—” 

“Liam,” he croaked. Why was his throat so dry? He’d drunk nearly half the rum.

“I beg your pardon?” She blinked the biggest, bluest eyes he’d ever seen, and he nearly forgot his own name. 

“Er—” he cleared his throat. “My name, it’s um, Liam. Please call me Liam.”

“Liam,” she repeated, smiling again. He wished she would stop doing that so he could bloody breathe, and also that she would never stop because she was stunning. “I’m Belle.” 

Belle, he thought. French for ‘beautiful.’ Almost too on-the-nose, yet somehow perfect.

“Belle,” he said softly. “It suits you.” 

She flushed a glorious shade of rose pink. “My mother named me,” she said, almost shyly. He wanted to ask her all about her mother and her father and everyone else close to her and all her thoughts and hopes and dreams but before he could even open his mouth again she steered the conversation back to the point. “Liam, I wanted to talk to you about Killian.” 

“Killian?” Liam was shaken out of his fuckstruck haze by a flash of fear. “What about him? Is there a problem?”

“No, no, nothing like that! He’s one of the brightest students I’ve had the pleasure of working with, but— well, you see, in addition to being the librarian I am also the college admissions counselor. I was hoping we might discuss Killian’s options for university.” 

“He’s going to Oxford,” said Liam automatically. 

“Yes, I know he’s been offered a place there, it’s just, well, what with everything that’s happened and the way Killian seems to be finally settling into life here in the US, I thought he might not wish to return to England for uni. Especially if you plan to remain here.” 

Liam’s mind whirled. He’d been so caught up in dealing with Killian’s current drama that he hadn’t spared a thought for the drama that was to come. The one thing that his brother had been absolutely certain about since the secret broke was that he no longer wished to return to England. Did that include Oxford? Liam somehow suspected it did. 

“I do plan to remain here,” he replied. “I like my job very much and feel surprisingly at home in Storybrooke. Killian does as well.” He’d never given the matter much consideration before, but now that he thought about it he realised how true this was. Storybrooke, after only a few short months, felt like home in the way his hometown never had.

Belle laughed. “Storybrooke has a way of doing that to people,” she said. “I only intended to stay a year myself, but it’ll be five years for me, in July.” 

“I don’t think,” said Liam slowly, thinking hard, “that Killian is as dead set on Oxford as he once was. But if he stays in the US for uni I’d need to be certain that he had access to the same quality of education he’d have received there. And then there’s the question of, er, finance. He’d have a bursary at Oxford.”  

Belle smiled reassuringly. “I don’t think either of those things will present an insurmountable problem,” she said. “Let me tell you some of the ideas I’ve had, and then if you’re agreeable we can broach the subject to Killian.” 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

By the time Emma had finished helping her mother with hosting duties and was able to actually join the party, Killian, Ruby, and Victor —accompanied, Emma was irritated to note, by Aurora— were settled comfortably on and around the end of her living room sofa, laughing uproariously. 

“What’s so funny?” Emma whispered to Ruby. 

Victor and Killian are just telling stories from their road trip the other day,” Ruby replied. Earlier that week Victor and Killian had driven down to Portland for the concert Victor had wanted to see. Caught up in her mother’s whirlwind of party planning, Emma hadn’t had a chance to see or speak to Killian at all over the past few days, and now she couldn’t help feeling a bit left out. Usually she was the first person Killian told anything —for a while she had been the only one— yet now she had no idea what tale he’d been recounting. Again, she reminded herself that this was good, that he needed other friends. That she was glad he’d found them in Storybrooke.  Still, the vicious talons of her jealousy would not relinquish their grasp, particularly when Aurora leaned close to him, eyes shining with laughter, and touched his arm as she cried “And then what happened?”

Killian delivered his punch line and the group exploded in laughter. Aurora’s hand slid, oh so casually, from Killian’s arm and onto his leg. Emma waited for her to remove it, or for Killian to pull away, but instead he remained where he was and she actually slid closer to him on the couch, and Emma’s vision went red around the edges. Don’t be a jerk, Emma, she begged herself, just let it go, even as her mouth opened and she heard her voice say “I’m surprised to see you here, Aurora. You’ve never come to our party before.”

Their mothers were good friends and they had grown up next door to each other, but for some reason Aurora and Emma had never been close. 

“Oh, it just seemed like it might be fun this year,” said Aurora, with a significant glance at Killian, who had just taken his phone out to show Ruby some pictures and was paying no attention. Her hand was still on his leg, and she flexed her fingers slightly. Emma felt her face grow hot and her own fingers itched to grab Aurora by the hair and drag her from the house. She could cool off in a snow drift, thought Emma viciously, it might do her good. 

And what the hell was going on with Killian, she fumed. He didn’t even seem to notice Aurora was touching him. Not like the way he tensed and looked uncomfortable if Emma even so much as brushed up against him. What the fuck was that about?

Why the fuck was she thinking “fuck”? What was wrong with her?

“Swan?” Emma shook herself out of her thoughts at the sound of Killian’s voice. “Is everything all right?” 

She tried to smile but could tell from the way his brow wrinkled that he wasn’t buying it. “I’m fine. Um, can I talk to you?” 

He smiled, and his was genuine. “Of course, love.” He stood and followed her away from the group, not noticing as Aurora’s hand slid off him. 

Emma didn’t really know what she wanted to say, only that she wanted him away from Aurora. So it came as much of a surprise to her as to him when the words “Do you want to take a walk in the garden?” fell from her lips. 

“The garden? Isn’t it covered in snow?” 

She shrugged. “It’s still pretty, and, I don’t know, I feel like I need some air.” 

Killian shrugged too. “Sure,” he grinned at her. “Whatever you wish, Swan.” 

He offered her his arm and she giggled as she linked her own thorough it. As they turned away she caught a glimpse of Aurora’s face falling into a pout and felt a wash of emotion she couldn’t put a name to. Triumph? Relief? It didn’t feel quite like either. All she knew was that Killian had agreed to come with her not just willingly but gladly. He still preferred her company over any other’s, and that made her happy. 

They put on their coats and she exchanged her heels for boots, glad she’d chosen to wear thick tights with her dress. Killian had only his dress shoes so she dug out an old pair of her dad’s boots, which almost fit, and a thick pair of socks. Soon they were bundled up and ready, and linking arms again they headed out to the snowy garden.

It was a large, well-tended space, a testament to her mother’s affinity with nature, with a walled-off vegetable area to the left and a thick rose hedge at the back, separating their house from Aurora’s.  At the centre of it all stood a huge, sprawling tree, with branches that reached to the furthest corners of the garden and a large white swing hanging from the sturdiest one. 

“This is the apple tree my aunt Regina gave Mom when I was born,” said Emma as they approached it. “They’re stepsisters and they never really got along, but when Mom was pregnant with me they had a huge fight and Regina knocked Mom down a flight of stairs. She almost miscarried me. Aunt Regina felt terrible and tried to make amends with the tree. I don’t think Mom was exactly thrilled; Aunt Regina is kind of weirdly obsessed with those apples and it makes Mom a bit uncomfortable. But she said Regina was trying to make a gesture of goodwill and she could do the same, so she planted it, and since then they’ve made an effort to be civil, or at least not to be completely awful to each other. About three years ago Mom actually set Aunt Regina up with her husband. Or, he’s now her husband. You know what I mean.”

“Indeed. It’s good that they were able to settle their differences, even if only in part.” 

“I think they’re too different to ever really be close, but I’m glad they don’t fight anymore. And I like Aunt Regina well enough. She can be a bit… abrasive, but she always tries to be nice to me.” 

“Well, she did nearly kill you, so nice is really the least she could do.” said Killian, his voice gruff.

Emma laughed. “That’s what Dad says.” 

Killian chuckled and tightened his arm around hers, almost protectively. She snuggled into his side and leaned her head on his shoulder, feeling him tense just briefly before he relaxed with a small sigh, and she thought she felt his cheek brush her hair. “Can I ask you something?” he asked. 

“You just did.” 

He sighed again, dramatically this time, and she could almost feel his eyes roll. “Another thing, then,” he said. 

“Sure.” 

“Is your mum’s name really Snow?”

“Yep.”

“And— is there a story behind that?” 

“She says it’s the curse of hippie parents and I should be grateful she rebelled against her upbringing when naming me.”

“Hold up,” Killian stopped walking and looked down at her. “You’re telling me that if she’d stuck with family tradition you could have been named Rain? Or Sleet?” Emma began to laugh. “Or Blizzard? Or Drizzle? What an opportunity missed!” He sounded almost indignant.

“Drizzle Swan?” Emma could barely choke out the words through her laughter. “Really?”

“There’s dozens of words for precipitation, love, your mum could really have flexed her creativity. I mean, there’s flurry, hail, spit—”

“Spit?!”

“It’s a real weather thing! Or what about monsoon? Or torrent? Torrent sounds like something people might name their kids these days.”

Emma was laughing so hard she snorted, which made her laugh harder. She buried her face in Killian’s shoulder and for the first time since she’d found out about his past he didn’t stiffen when she got close to him. He was too busy laughing himself, his shoulder shaking under her cheek as he held onto her arm, his other hand gripping the back of her coat. He turned his face into her hair and she turned hers into his neck, and as their laughter faded their arms shifted and tightened around each other until they were standing in the middle of the garden, twined together, snow falling softly around them. 

They stood like that for a long time. Finally Killian sighed, his breath tickling the fine hairs on her temple and making her shiver. “Emma,” he said, in a voice so soft she could barely hear it, “I wish things were different.” 

“They could be—” 

“No. They are what they are and we have to deal with them. I have to deal with them. I just— I need time to sort myself out.” 

Familiar pain twisted within her, but she kept her grip on her emotions. “I understand,” she said. “I really do, and I don’t want anything from you that you’re not able to offer freely. I’ll wait.” 

“I could never ask you to—” 

“I want to.” I love you. I’d wait forever. She swallowed the words back, knowing he wasn’t ready to hear them. 

“Swan, I don’t deserve—” he began, and her pain was burned away in a bright flash of cleansing anger. She was so sick of him thinking himself worthless because of what that— that— Emma didn’t even like to think the word she had in mind for Milah, but she certainly felt it— what that woman had done to him. Pulling back from the embrace, she fixed him with a glare and fisted her hand in the front of his coat, thumping his chest with it. 

“Yes,” she said firmly, almost snarling. “You do. You deserve— so much,” she finished lamely, unable to say what she wanted to say without revealing far too much. 

He looked down at her and their eyes met, his overflowing with the same desperately conflicted yearning they’d held the night of his birthday. She could see in them that he wanted to kiss her, and more than anything in the world she wanted to let him, longed to feel his lips and tongue on hers again, as she had countless times in her dreams. She wanted to wrap herself around him and sink into him, to absorb his pain and guilt and burn them away with the fire of the fury she still felt on his behalf. She wanted all this and more, but she also knew that he didn’t, not really. He wasn’t ready. 

Gathering every ounce of willpower she possessed, she stepped back, out of his arms, before he could do something he’d regret. 

His expressive eyes flashed with disappointment, followed quickly by relief. 

Emma swallowed the lump in her throat, forced it down. This was the right thing, she reminded herself. However much it hurt, it was the right thing. And therefore the only thing. 

“Come on,” she said, summoning a bright smile from God knows where. “Let’s get back inside. It’s freaking freezing out here. What idiot thought it was a good idea to stand in the garden in the middle of winter?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Your Killian is a lovely young man,” said Snow some hours later as they collected empty plates and mugs and loaded them into the dishwasher.  

The butterflies did a quick jitterbug in Emma’s belly, but she managed to roll her eyes. “Mo-om, he’s not my Killian.” 

“Are you sure about that, dear?” asked Snow, in the sing-song voice that never failed to raise Emma’s hackles. 

“Mom, please don’t try to matchmake us,” she pleaded. “Killian’s made it clear he just wants to be friends.” That wasn’t entirely true, but her mom definitely didn’t need to know about what had happened in the garden. 

“Emma, you know perfectly well I don’t matchmake,” scolded Snow. 

“Yeah?” Emma tried to imitate Killian’s eyebrow quirk but only succeeded in looking surprised. “Tell that to Lance. Or Jasmine. Or Aunt Regina, and you don’t even like her!”

“I like your Aunt Regina!” protested Snow, unconvincingly, as a telling flush bloomed on her cheeks. “We’ve worked hard to put aside our differences.” 

“Uh huh,” said Emma, forbearing to point out that those differences had evidently not been put far enough aside for her step-aunt to accept Snow’s invitation to this party. “Mayoral business” had been her excuse, but Emma had it on no lesser authority than that of her cousin Henry that the Mayor’s office was already closed for the year, and he, Regina, and Robin were planning to spend Christmas skiing in Aspen. 

“And anyway,” Snow persisted, “I don’t have to like someone to think they deserve a happy ending. You definitely deserve one.” 

“Well, I’m not going to have my happy ending with Killian, so can you drop it please?” If she repeated this enough, thought Emma, she might eventually believe it.  

“Of course, sweetie, I won’t push,” said Snow. “But— don’t write Killian off just yet.” 

She smiled her serene smile and refused to be drawn out any further on the subject. 

Notes: The eagle-eyed among you may remember that I called Snow Mary Margaret earlier in this story. That’s now been changed. She’s much more Snow than MM here, and the name change led to the garden scene, which is not what I’d intended but I think is going to take the story in a better direction. 

[dyospeaks]

So, I was abused again

I’ve had a shitty few months.

So, I am coming to terms with the fact that my ex (he/they) was abusive. He didn’t hit me very often, but if we got in a fight and I didn’t swallow my tongue and make myself small, he would go into fugue states, where he didn’t remember anything and would act out maybe 3 or 4 times a year. He’d act out in many ways; always screaming to the point I’d often break down crying, usually trying to hurt himself by taking pills or running into traffic while I desperately tried to save his life, often he would throw things at me or push me away or try to move past me by trying to throw me out of the way, a few times actively hitting me, and once even trying to stab me with a knife while I ran around in the snow trying to keep out of his range. Uh. It’s been a lot.

For years, I’ve been scared of upsetting him and setting him off. I made myself smaller. But I justified it as, yes, he has mental health issues. He would go into fugue states, he would never hit me when he was cognizant and his own person. When the fugue state ended he wouldn’t remember what he did, so it wasn’t his fault. I would comfort him about the things he did, soften the blow of what happened when he couldn’t remember. I would sweep up the glass, clean whatever he broke, so he wouldn’t feel guilty for things he couldn’t control.

But, I never really paid attention to how it was hurting me. I didn’t get into arguments with him, I always let him be right, because if I tried to stand up for myself about anything where I didn’t let it all slide, he could snap, and I told people for years that I was scared but I also told them my fear was irrational, because my ex was so kind and gentle and caring the other times.

It’s really hard to break down the justifications of what happened and accept that it was abuse, and that’s just the physical stuff.

Emotionally, I always had to be wrong. If he misremembered something (he claimed all the time that his memory was awful, but never misremembered anything when we were arguing), then actually it was me misremembering. All the arguments were my fault, everything wrong was because I didn’t let things go, that I had to be right. But I let so much go all the time in fear, so I don’t know why he made me feel that way.

Recently, he broke up with me. He said he wasn’t sure we should still be together, and made me wait a month to find out whether or not he wanted to keep trying. I was really hurting, and he came home after a month from his other partner and wanted to snuggle and kiss on me. I was like, not comfortable with that, so I put down a boundary. He needed to tell me right then whether or not we were still together before I would do that, and this made him really upset.

He said I was ‘denying affection’, and that he wasn’t willing to give us another chance. I was like ‘Okay, so you’re wanting to end our relationship?’ and he was like ‘No, I just think it’s been 7 years and I don’t want to try anymore’, but, that’s getting into minutiae. I sorta freaked out and begged him to leave, I was crying and yelling at him to just go and leave me alone, but he refused, and then he called the cops. I am a queer woman with a ‘Blue Lives Murder’ sign in my apartment who has been harassed by cops before, so I was in a dangerous position, but luckily the cops just tried to harass me over property rights and threatened to arrest me before my ex finally left.

It’s been three weeks since then, and my ex has done everything he can to make my life miserable. Just a lot of stuff. Two days ago he tried to cancel my phone line and I was lucky to get it transferred into my own name. Yesterday he went to our joint account and took out all of my direct deposit, and then left me an envelope in the mail with my rent money and nothing else, keeping all the rest of my money for himself. Today, he canceled the food stamps card so I wouldn’t have access.

He’s been telling everyone I’m the abuser he’s fleeing from, which is... difficult and hurtful. He keeps retelling the story in different ways, changing the details, and whenever I say something he calls me a liar and a child. For a bit I was feeling insane there, like my reality was melting down. Luckily we don’t share many friends anymore, since he’s been getting into fights with my irl friends for years and I don’t have many left, and he doesn’t interact with hardly any of my internet friends.

But, bluh. I have filed for divorce. I closed out the shared account so he couldn’t steal all my money next month. I filed for my own foodstamps. I turned in a change to the property management to try to get him off the lease. I called a domestic violence advocacy group to talk about a protection order so I can change the locks. I’m working to try to get him out of my life so he can’t keep hurting me over and over.

So, I guess wish me luck on this shitty journey. I was abused in weirdly similar ways 8 years ago in my first bad marriage, and instead of actually processing the trauma I ended up rushing into a relationship with my current ex in order to feel something, and managed to put myself back in the same situation. I feel like an idiot, but maybe this time I can learn to actually see the signs.

[nahuelkatz]

Un Chien Andalou

Un Chien Andalou (French pronunciation: ​[œ̃ ʃjɛ̃ ɑ̃dalu], An Andalusian Dog) is a 1929 Franco-Spanish silent surrealist short film by Spanish director Luis Buñuel and artist Salvador Dalí. It was Buñuel's first film and was initially released in 1929 with a limited showing at Studio des Ursulines in Paris, became popular and ran for eight months.[1]

Un Chien Andalou has no plot in the conventional sense of the word. The chronology of the film is disjointed, jumping from the initial "once upon a time" to "eight years later" without the events or characters changing. It uses dream logic in narrative flow that can be described in terms of then-popular Freudian free association, presenting a series of tenuously related scenes.

The film opens with a title card reading "Once upon a time". A middle-aged man (Luis Buñuel) sharpens his razor at his balcony door and tests the razor on his thumb. He then opens the door, and idly fingers the razor while gazing at the moon, about to be engulfed by a thin cloud, from his balcony. There is a cut to a close-up of a young woman (Simone Mareuil) being held by the man. She calmly stares straight ahead as he brings the razor near her eye. Another cut occurs to the moon being overcome by the cloud, then a cut to a close up of a hand slitting the eye of an animal with the razor (which happens so quickly the viewer may believe it was the woman's eye), and the vitreous humour spills out from it.

Rapado

Rapado is an Argentine and Dutch 1992 film, written and directed by Martín Rejtman, his first feature film.[1]

The film tells the story of a teenager whose motorcycle, money and sneakers are stolen. He wants to steal another motorcycle before the end of the night.

The Lobster

The Lobster is a 2015 absurdist dystopian black comedy film directed, co-written, and co-produced by Yorgos Lanthimos, co-produced by Ceci Dempsy, Ed Guiney, and Lee Magiday, and co-written by Efthimis Filippou.[6][7][8] In the film's setting, single people are given 45 days to find a romantic partner or otherwise be turned into animals.[9] It stars Colin Farrell as a newly single man trying to find someone so he can remain human, and Rachel Weisz as a woman who is also looking for a relationship, so they attempt to form one together. The film is a co-production by Ireland, the United Kingdom, Greece, France, and the Netherlands.

It was selected to compete for the Palme d'Or at the 2015 Cannes Film Festival and won the Jury Prize. It was shown in the Special Presentations section of the 2015 Toronto International Film Festival.[10] The film was nominated for Best Original Screenplay at the 89th Academy Awards and for Outstanding British Film at the 69th British Academy Film Awards.

David is escorted to a hotel after his wife has left him for another man. The hotel manager reveals that single people have 45 days to find a partner, or they will be transformed into an animal of their choice; the dog accompanying David is his brother. David chooses to become a lobster, because of their life cycle and his love of the sea. David makes acquaintances with Robert, a man with a lisp, and John, a man with a limp, who become his quasi-friends. John explains that he was injured in an attempt to reconnect with his mother, who had been transformed into a wolf.

The Headless Woman

The Headless Woman  (Spanish: La mujer sin cabeza / La mujer rubia) is a 2008 Argentine psychological thriller art film[5][6][7] written and directed by Lucrecia Martel and starring María Onetto. The plot revolves around Vero (short for Verónica) (Onetto), who hits something while driving on a deserted road near Salta. Not being sure if she has hit a person or an animal, she drives off, and becomes increasingly mentally disturbed.

The film premiered in competition at the 2008 Cannes Film Festival on May 21, 2008.[8] It opened nationwide on August 21, 2008, after being screened at the Locarno International Film Festival earlier that month. While The Headless Woman was mostly lauded by critics for its cinematography and social commentary, others were critical towards the film's slow pace and lack of clear narrative.[9][10] In 2016, the film was ranked No. 89th on BBC's list of the 100 greatest films of the 21st century.[11]

This film is centered around Vero (Onetto), an Argentinean bourgeois woman, and how her life slowly twists out of control after she mistakenly believes she struck and killed a dark-skinned servant's child with her car. As Vero is driving, she is distracted by her cell phone and, as she looks down to answer it, her car hits something. She peers in the rear-view mirror, collects herself, and drives away. A non-point-of-view shot of Vero driving away from the scene shows a dog lying dead on the ground.

Fine Powder

Fine Powder (Spanish: Picado fino) is a 1996 Argentine drama film, written and directed by Esteban Sapir. The picture features Facundo Luengo, Belén Blanco, Marcela Guerty, among others.[1]

The film tells of Thomas (Facundo Luengo) a Jewish grown man who lives with his grandmother in the industrial section of a large Argentine city. His life isn't going exactly as planned. To make matters worse, when he needs to make some money, he hooks up with a drug dealer.

Lost Highway 

Lost Highway is a 1997 neo-noir film directed by David Lynch and co-written by Lynch and Barry Gifford. It stars Bill Pullman, Patricia Arquette, Balthazar Getty, and Robert Blake. The film follows a musician (Pullman) who begins receiving mysterious VHS tapes of him and his wife (Arquette) in their home, and who is suddenly convicted of murder.

Lost Highway was financed by the French production compay Ciby 2000 and was largely shot in Los Angeles, where Lynch collaborated with frequent producer Mary Sweeney and cinematographer Peter Deming. Lynch has described the film as a "psychogenic fugue" rather than a conventionally logical story, while the film's surreal narrative structure has been likened to a Möbius strip.

One day, Fred Madison, a Los Angeles saxophonist, receives a message on the intercom of his house: "Dick Laurent is dead." The next morning, his wife Renee finds a VHS tape on their porch containing a video of their house. After having sex, Fred sees Renee's face as that of a pale old man, then tells her he had a dream about someone resembling her being attacked. As the days pass, more tapes arrive, showing shots of them asleep in their bed. 

Lion's Den

Lion's Den (Spanish: Leonera) is a 2008 Argentine drama film directed, co-written, co-produced and co-edited by Pablo Trapero. Addressing motherhood within the prison system, it stars Martina Gusmán, Elli Medeiros and Rodrigo Santoro. The film competed in the Competition at the 2008 Cannes Film Festival.

It was Argentina's official submission for the 2009 Academy Award for Best Foreign Language Film.

Julia, a 25 year-old university student, two weeks pregnant, with no criminal record, is sent to prison. Julia murdered the father of her child. This story addresses maternity, jail and Justice; confinement, guilt and solitude; but above all it deals with Julia and her son, Tomas, born inside an Argentinean prison.

Bicycle Thieves (Italian: Ladri di biciclette; sometimes known in the United States as The Bicycle Thief)[4] is a 1948 Italian neorealist drama film directed by Vittorio De Sica. It follows the story of a poor father searching post-World War II Rome for his stolen bicycle, without which he will lose the job which was to be the salvation of his young family.

Adapted for the screen by Cesare Zavattini from a novel by Luigi Bartolini, and starring Lamberto Maggiorani as the desperate father and Enzo Staiola as his plucky young son, Bicycle Thieves received an Academy Honorary Award (most outstanding foreign language film) in 1950 and, in 1952 was deemed the greatest film of all time by Sight & Sound magazine's poll of filmmakers and critics;[5] fifty years later another poll organized by the same magazine ranked it sixth among the greatest-ever films.[6]

In the post-World War II Val Melaina neighbourhood of Rome, Antonio Ricci (Lamberto Maggiorani) is desperate for work to support his wife Maria (Lianella Carell), his son Bruno (Enzo Staiola) and his small baby. He is offered a job of pasting advertising bills but tells Maria that he cannot accept because the job requires a bicycle. Maria resolutely strips the bed of her dowry bedsheets‍—‌prized possessions for a poor family‍—‌and takes them to the pawn shop, where they bring enough to redeem Antonio's pawned bicycle. On his first day of work, Antonio is atop a ladder when a young man (Vittorio Antonucci) snatches the bicycle.

Pizza, Beer, and Cigarettes (Spanish: Pizza, birra, faso), is a 1998 Argentine drama film, co-directed and co-written by Israel Adrián Caetano and Bruno Stagnaro. It's also known as: Pizza, Beer & Smokes. The drama features Héctor Anglada, Jorge Sesan, Pamela Jordán, and others.[2] Pizza, Beer, and Cigarettes is the film that's known as "the spark that ignited the New Argentine Cinema when it premiered at the international Mar del Plata Film Festival."[3]

The motion picture was filmed entirely in Buenos Aires, Argentina.

This story takes place in an impoverished district outside Buenos Aires. It tells about a corrupt group of teenage misfits: the not-so-bright Megabom (Alejandro Pous), the asthmatic Pablo (Jorge Sesan), the nerdy Frula (Walter Diaz), and Sandra (Pamela Jordan), the pregnant girlfriend of El Cordobes (Héctor Anglada). All are squatters living together in the same house. The group wanders the city and steal in order to survive. After letting go of their former employer, a crooked taxi driver who paid them a cut of what they could steal from his passengers, Pablo and Cordobes steal from a crippled street vendor.

Paulina (Spanish: La patota) is a 2015 internationally co-produced thriller film directed by Santiago Mitre. It was screened in the International Critics' Week section at the 2015 Cannes Film Festival[2] where it won the Nespresso Grand Prize and the FIPRESCI Prize.[3][4] It is inspired by the 1960 film La patota.[1]

Paulina is a young lawyer with a promising career in Buenos Aires, who chooses to go back to her home town. Her father, Fernando, is a well known judge. Against his will, Paulina decides to teach in a suburban high school as part of an inclusion program. One night, after the second week working there, she’s brutally raped by a gang. With the disapproval of the people around her, she decides to go back to work, in the neighborhood where she was attacked.

Let the Right One In (Swedish: Låt den rätte komma in) is a 2008 Swedish romantic horror film directed by Tomas Alfredson, based on the 2004 novel of the same title by John Ajvide Lindqvist, who also wrote the screenplay. The film tells the story of a bullied 12-year-old boy who develops a friendship with a vampire child in Blackeberg, a suburb of Stockholm, in the early 1980s. Alfredson, unconcerned with the horror and vampire conventions, decided to tone down many elements of the novel and focus primarily on the relationship between the two main characters and explore the darker side of humanity. Selecting the lead actors involved a year-long process with open castings held all over Sweden. In the end, the 11-year-olds Kåre Hedebrant and Lina Leandersson were chosen for the leading roles. They were subsequently commended by both Alfredson and film reviewers for their performances.

The film received critical acclaim and won several awards, including the "Founders Award for Best Narrative Feature" at the 2008 Tribeca Film Festival and the European Fantastic Film Festivals Federation's 2008 Méliès d'Or (Golden Méliès) for the "Best European Fantastic Feature Film", as well as four Guldbagge Awards from the Swedish Film Institute and the Saturn Award for Best International Film.

Oskar, a meek 12-year-old boy, resides with his mother Yvonne in the western Stockholm suburb of Blackeberg in 1981. His classmates regularly bully him, and he spends his evenings imagining revenge, collecting clippings from newspapers and magazines about grisly murders. One night he meets Eli, who appears to be a pale girl of his age. Eli has recently moved into the next-door apartment with an older man, Håkan. Eli initially informs Oskar that they cannot be friends. Over time, however, they begin to form a close relationship, with Oskar lending his Rubik's Cube to Eli, and the two exchanging Morse code messages through their adjoining wall. Håkan requests that Eli stop seeing Oskar. After questioning Oskar about a cut on his cheek, Eli learns that the boy is being bullied by schoolmates and encourages him to stand up for himself. This inspires Oskar to enroll for weight-training classes after school.

Amores perros is a 2000 Mexican crime comedy-drama film directed by Alejandro González Iñárritu and written by Guillermo Arriaga. Amores perros is the first installment in González Iñárritu's "Trilogy of Death", succeeded by 21 Grams and Babel.[4] It is an anthology film constructed as a triptych: it contains three distinct stories connected by a car accident in Mexico City. The stories centre on a teenager in the slums who gets involved in dogfighting; a model who seriously injures her leg; and a mysterious hitman. The stories are linked in various ways, including the presence of dogs in each of them.

The title is a pun in Spanish; the word "perros", which literally means "dogs", can also be used to refer to misery, so that it roughly means 'bad loves' with canine connotations. The film was released under its Spanish title in the English-speaking world, although it was sometimes translated as Love's a Bitch in marketing.

The film is constructed from three distinct stories linked by a car accident that brings the characters briefly together.

La Antena (English: The Aerial) is a 2007 Argentine drama film written and directed by Esteban Sapir. The film stars Valeria Bertuccelli, Alejandro Urdapilleta, Julieta Cardinali, with Rafael Ferro and Florencia Raggi in supporting roles.

The movie begins with a pair of hands typing on a typewriter. The denizens of a nameless city "in the year XX" have lost their voices. People communicate by mouthing out words that are spelled mid-air. The only person who has kept the use of her voice is La Voz ("the voice"), a singer working for the sole TV channel broadcast in the city, run by Mr. TV, who desires La Voz. La Voz wears a hood over her head that hides away her face. She has a son called Tomás, an eyeless little kid who nonetheless also has a voice (although this is kept a secret). Tomás lives next door to Ana, whom he one day befriends after a letter addressed to his house is erroneously delivered to hers.

The House That Jack Built

The House That Jack Built is a 2018 psychological horror art film written and directed by Lars von Trier, starring Matt Dillon in the title role of Jack. The story follows Jack, a serial killer, over the course of 12 years.[4] The film debuted at the Cannes Film Festival, marking von Trier's return to the festival after more than six years. It was given a single-day theatrical release on 28 November 2018 in the United States, and polarized critics.[5]

The story follows Jack, a serial killer with some artistic disposition, over the course of twelve years and depicts the murders that develop Jack as a serial killer through five "Incidents" and an epilogue. Throughout the film, he has side conversations with Verge in between the depictions of the incidents, most of which revolve around discussion of art, philosophy, ethics or Jack's view of the world.

[taeminuet]

Heartbeat (8/?)

Title: Heartbeat Fandom: SHINee Pairings: (eventual) Jongtae; Minkey; OnKai Chapter Wordcount: ~3k Overall Rating: R (Some chapters will be NC-17; these will be marked.) Chapter Warnings: hallucinations, references to earlier character abuse, accidental self-harm Summary: In which not every problem needs to be fixed and not every person needs to be saved; sometimes you just need support.

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1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7

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Chapter 8: Taemin

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Minho going to sleep hurts in ways Taemin doesn't expect. It's too quiet suddenly, his first moment really alone since he arrived here, and it grates on his nerves. There are some staff member still awake, he knows, running night shift and the like, nurses and orderlies, but they feel very far away. They don't feel real.

What feels real is the encroaching isolation. Minho goes to sleep, Key retreats to his room, and Jinki doesn't come out from behind closed doors. Taemin feels lonely, and he hates himself for it because it's a feeling he should be used to, but somehow he can never quite adjust.

He misses Minho for the night. He misses Jongin overall, misses being home with his friend. He misses a lot of things. It somehow feels worse like this, in the dark. It always does.

Taemin retreats to his room to avoid the open space of the common area, and lies there in the darkness, staring at the ceiling.

Sleep hovers just out of reach, taunting him with an exhaustion that never quite seems to overtake him, and Taemin should be used to that too, should know better than to think that he can have it. But he somehow falls for it every time, can feel the frustration of not sleeping welling up in his as it always does, a feeling of tired anguish too impotent to be proper sorrow. It makes his head ache and his eyes tear up uselessly, blurring out the shadows in the dark.

He doesn't dare cry again. He's cried so much in these last 48 hours, and it's making him feel even more tired, emotionally exhausted along with physically. He wishes he had thought it out better, had eaten more or forced himself into a few more hours of fugue state, done something, anything at all.

Instead, the room feels fuzzy, distant. Shadows seems to fade in and out of existence until Taemin doesn't know if it's real or in his head or both Taemin can't even bring himself to be surprised. Of course this would happen. Eventually, he was going to run up against a brick wall. Eventually, he wasn't going to be able to cling to someone else to convince him that everything was real. Tonight, he has to handle this alone, and that is always so much worse.

He tries his best. He hides everything in his room that could be dangerous and huddles in the center of his bet, wrapped in his blanket and shaking, trying to talk himself down. He repeats things out loud, over and over, until the words sound like nonsense in his ears, meaningless and unhelpful: He's in bed. He's safe. No one is here. He's alone. That's real. All of that is real. All of it.

And yet, real or not, all the breath leaves him all at once at the first sound. It's maybe minutes later. Maybe hours. He doesn't know. He's lost all track of time, things running too fast around him one moment and too slow the next, panic welling in his veins as he squeezes his eyes shut.

“No,” he whispers out loud, the word jarring after the repeated mantra, and he sounds small enough that it scares him worse. “No, you're not real. Get out.”

The sounds seem to echo. Not around him. Inside of him. Thudding in his own head, almost like a heartbeat except that he can feel his heart racing in his chest, too fast for him to keep up with. No, this is slow, methodical. Thud, thud, thud, like footsteps. Always footsteps, too loud, too heavy to be anything but human.

And it strikes him again, how very real it is: he's alone. For the first time in a very long time, he's completely alone for this. No Taesun to bandage him up. No Jongin to reassure him that it's going to be okay. Just him, in the darkness, all alone while the footsteps thud, closer, closer

“Get out! Fuck you, you're not real! Get out!” Taemin snarls, trying to scramble away from the sound. But it keeps getting louder and louder until he doesn't even know where it's coming from, just feels like he has an entire drumline in his head, beating a hard steady tempo.

“Please,” he whines, desperate. “Please don't. I'll be good.”

But it doesn't matter how good he is. It never matters. It's never enough to save him. He can already almost feel the pattern of bruising that's going to be beaten into his skin. He's sure if he looks down, he'll see the marks on his arms, his chest, beneath his shirt, in places where no one will see but he'll feel it all over for days, feel the pain deep in his skin, but not nearly so deep as his fear.

His hands shake, and he tugs his sleeves down frantically, trying to hide. He doesn't want to see. He doesn't want anyone else to see, to ask, to know.

“Please,” he sobs, and whips his head around, trying to find a source, something he can fight off. It's not real. It's not real. But it feels real, and Taemin feels a rush of phantom panic. There are ghosts of hands around his throat, so real, choking him. They cut off his breath, his thoughts, and Taemin chokes on his own panic.

He lifts his hands to his throat, scrabbling at the ghosts, trying to rip the hands away from his neck. He can't breathe, can't think, can't, can't, can't.

It hurts, his own fingernails raking into his skin hard enough to leave welts, to leave crimson caught under his fingernails, but he manages to drag in a quick breath and loose it again all at once, breathing rapid and uncontrollable in his panic. If he gets chokes again, he'll die. He'll die here, in the dark.

He kicks away his blankets, stumbling hard as he scrambles to his feet. He has to get away. He has to. He doesn't want to die here.

The footsteps are right behind him, echoing, chasing him as he flees, tumbling out of his room and whipping his head around, the pain in his neck flaring with every motion. He doesn't know where he's running to. Where is it safe? He had hoped here.  But Minho won't remember even if Taemin wakes him up and he doesn't know if it's Jinki or Onew in there right now, and Key is in a wheelchair and, and-- god, and Taemin doesn't know, he doesn't know--

Jonghyun. Jonghyun is there. Jonghyun is there and he's an asshole but he's there and Taemin needs someone, anyone. Someone who won't be in danger. Someone who can help. God.

The thudding is at his heels, so close, so close, and he doesn't have time to think, to reconsider. He slams into Jonghyun's door at full force, fingers fumbling with the doorknob – the doors down lock here, but Taemin's hands are shaking and his breath is coming so fast that he's dizzy, fingers scratching and scrabbling, slamming frantically against the wood. “Help,” he croaks, voice high and panicked. “Help me. Help me, please.”

The door opens.

Jonghyun stands there, shirtless and sleepy and looking somehow softer than Taemin has ever seen. He's not even ruffled, looks like he hasn't slept yet either, and Taemin doesn't know what time it is, but Jonghyun's still awake and he's right here and he's safe, and Taemin tumbles past him, into his room, fleeing to the far corner and balling up, head down and hands braced over the back of his neck, prepared for a beating.

He trembles, gasping for air and getting none. “Please,” he whimpers. “Please, don't let him in here. Please, help me.”

Jonghyun is staring at him, Taemin knows. He doesn't dare look up, but he knows, can feel the weight of Jonghyun's gaze on him and this was a mistake. This was a mistake.

The door slams, hard and sharp, and Taemin screams, jumping and scrambling back even further, jamming his shoulder-blades into the wall in his attempt to get away. Jonghyun stands in front of the door, hand on the knob holding it shut. He looks at Taemin, confusion all over his face, but he stands firm.

Taemin sobs. “He's here. He's here. He's gonna hurt me,” he whimpers, shaking his head desperately, trying to fold himself into a shape so small that no one will find him. “Please. Please, don't let him in.”

And then there are hands on him, pulling at his arms, his skin, dragging him out of his protective ball. Taemin yelps, howling like a trapped animal, lashing out wildly, trying to struggle and fight even though he knows it will only make it worse. But god, he doesn't want to jus give in, he doesn't want to hurt again. He's so scared.

The hands falter, but they don't let him go, and Taemin waits for the pain. But they don't hurt him either. They just pull him forward, into a chest, solid and warm and broader than his own, and hold him there, arms surrounding him.

“Hey. Hey,” Jonghyun says, so close to him, his voice soft with bewilderment but no less firm for it. “Calm down. No one's gonna hurt you. No one's going to get near you. I won't let them. Calm down. Breathe.”

Taemin's breath hitches in his chest and he wrenches back just far enough to look up into Jonghyun's face, eyes wide as he stares at him, mind still a whirl of panic and fear and trying to understand what's real.

And then he crumples, like with Minho but worse, diving back into Jonghyun's hold, burrowing himself into the space where at least there's someone there. He throws his arms around Jonghyun's shoulders, digging his fingernails into the back of Jonghyun's shoulders, tight enough to hurt, tight enough to make Jonghyun yelp, his hands tightening subtly on Taemin's skin, though still not enough to hurt. “Ah,” Jonghyun says, quietly. “Taemin.”

Taemin trembles. “Please.”

“What's going on?” Jonghyun says, and his voice is still confused, but it's higher now, a little breathy. “It's okay. There's nothing there. It's not real. You're safe.”

“No, you don't understand,” Taemin whines, feeling wrecked. “Don't make me go back out there. Please.”

“You're okay. You're okay, Taemin. It's-- ah!” Jonghyun jerks as Taemin's fingernails dug in deeper, Taemin clawing long marks up the back of his shoulders, trying to cling to him. Trying to cling to reality. He can still hear it in his head, still feel the threat, so close that his heart is racing. But Jonghyun's here, solid and evident, and Taemin is starting to figure it out again. What's real. What's not.

He whimpers and bites down hard on the nearest thing, trying to ground himself there. He's planning for his own arm or hand or something, but instead he gets his teeth buried into Jonghyun's shoulder, hard enough that Jonghyun cries out.

For a moment, Taemin is terrified. He hurt Jonghyun. Jonghyun will push him away. He'll make him leave. Fuck, fuck.

“No,” Jonghyun says, and he doesn't sound upset. In fact, his voice breathy and sweet, almost dazed. “Mm. Stay. You can stay.”

His hand comes up, cups Taemin's face. His fingers are calloused, the tips rough for some reason, but they're gentle on Taemin's skin, and they're very there, very real. The thudding is almost gone now, a background noise. And as Jonghyun draws him in, kisses him gentle and needy, Taemin doesn't protest.

“It's okay,” Jonghyun mumbles against his mouth, hauling Taemin in, and groans when Taemin clutches tighter, fingernails digging hard, sharp crescents into his skin. “Stay here. Stay here with me. I'm right here.”

And Taemin... he knows. He knows it's wrong. He knows. But god, if anything is real right now, can convince him that he's not back then, back there, it's the warmth of Jonghyun's lips against his, the strength of his palm against Taemin's side, the softness of his fingers on Taemin's cheek. If anything is real right now, it's the sound Jonghyun makes when Taemin's fingers spasm, rake across another inch of flesh.

He presses his face into Jonghyun's hand, whimpering low in his throat. “Okay,” he says. “Okay. Just help me. Make me know this is real.”

Jonghyun moans, a low, wretched sound that doesn't sound entirely... genuine. It sounds forced, like it's too much for the situation. But there is nothing exaggerated about the way Jonghyun hauls him in, his fingers sliding around from Taemin's cheek to wind into his hair, his other hand slipping from Taemin's waist to his hip to pull him into his lap.

When Jonghyun kisses him, it's desperate. As desperate as Taemin feels, and Taemin is half out of his mind. Jonghyun is shaking, mouth hot against Taemin's, and he breaks the kiss only to immediately kiss down, impatience clear in every action as he presses kisses to Taemin's throat, lips catching on the welt Taemin has raked into them.

“Fuck,” Taemin whispers, the ache of it making him tense, but Jonghyun only laps gently at the marks, soothing them over and sucking at the places between the lines, leaving little marks, soon to fade. “Fuck, Jonghyun--”

Jonghyun groans. “You did a hell of a number on yourself,” he whispers, voice breathless. “God.”

Taemin freezes. Right. Right, Taemin had done that to himself. Fuck. He had done that, fucked up in the head and thinking that he was dying. Thinking--

“Fuck. Fuck, Jonghyun, stop,” Taemin whines, pushing at Jonghyun's shoulders, the front this time, shoving him away.  “Stop. I can't.”

Jonghyun lurches back, looking at Taemin with wide eyes, a whine on his lips. He looks-- he doesn't look flirty. He looks needy and betrayed, like Taemin has just slapped him across the face. It's a bad look, and Taemin feels guilt twist up in his stomach. He feels guilty. He feels guilty and shitty and tired. He's so tired.

He feels his body sag. The adrenaline is fading now. He can feel his whole body going loose, exhaustion in every pore. He isn't okay. He isn't okay, and he's here, in the lap of someone he barely knows, someone who could hurt him so easily. But someone who had protected him. Who had at least tried to make him feel better in his own fucked up way.

And honestly, Taemin's scared. He's scared that if Jonghyun makes him leave, the night terrors will come back. He'll start freaking out again. But he... he doesn't want to do this. Not like this.

“I'm sorry,” he says, meaning it, because the look on Jonghyun's face is wretched. He leans his head back on Jonghyun's shoulder. The bite mark is there, stark and visible, and he touches it gently with his fingertips.

Jonghyun moans low in his throat, arches towards him again, fingers clutching hard at Taemin's hip. “Ah, d- don't,” Jonghyun stutters, swallowing a few times. “Please. I'll make it good. I'll-- I can make you feel so good.”

And it's not cocky. That's the worst part. This isn't the man he met at breakfast, that he's seen. Jonghyun is utterly sincere now, almost pleading, and Taemin is so weak. Just not quite weak enough for that.

“I can't,” he says again, shaking his head. “I can't, I'm sorry. Please don't make me leave.”

Jonghyun looks stricken. He curses, a soft, broken sound, almost of pain, and lets go of Taemin. Not fully, but he pulls his hand from Taemin's hair, pulls his finger from Taemin's hip. He sets them almost gingerly on Taemin's forearms instead, peeling Taemin off of him.

Taemin inhales sharply, the thought of leaving making something hateful curl in the pit of his stomach. The thought of Jonghyun kicking him out for not wanting to sleep with him.

But Jonghyun just gets Taemin off of him and climbs to his feet, stumbling backwards to put space between them and taking deep breaths, his entire body going tight with tension. “Fine,” he says, and his voice is trembling, but it's lost a lot of that breathy quality. Now he mostly sounds strained. “Fine, but if you wanna stay, you're gonna have to get up and get in the bed yourself. I'm not exactly-- I'm not okay right now. I can't... get near you.”

Taemin stares for a long moment, unsure. Is Jonghyun really going to let him stay? But he's not going to look a gift horse in the mouth, not right now. Not when it's this or be alone again for the night.

He stands slowly, without Jonghyun's help, and is only half startled at the wave of dizziness, the way darkness encroaches at the edges of his vision. He's strained himself past breaking, and he doesn't know what to do about that except follow Jonghyun's instructions, crawl into the man's bed and pull the blankets up around him. They smell fresh, like they've been recently replaced, but they also smell a little like Jonghyun.

Taemin bundles them around him into a protective cocoon, and stares at Jonghyun, who's watching him with a pained expression. Taemin pulls in on himself, ducking his head. “Thanks,” he says, and it feels weird to say. “You know, for letting me stay. And calming me down. And I'm sorry, for--” He gestures vaguely, the motion all shifting blankets. “I didn't mean to, you know, do all of this.”

Jonghyun shrugs. It seems forced at best. “Don't worry about it. I've done dumber in my time. I think a lot of us have. You're alright.”

“I guess,” Taemin says, noncommittally. “I just... yeah.”

Jonghyun shrugs again, and takes a couple deep breaths. “Okay,” he mumbles to himself. “I'm okay. I'm--” He takes another deep breath. “Scoot.”

He moves over to the bed, pushing gently at the ball of blankets that Taemin's made himself into. “I'm... I'll live. I'll be okay. Just... let me...” He shudders, crawls in next to Taemin and pulls at the blankets. “I don't care if you stay, but you're not hogging all the blankets.”

Taemin can't help it. He laughs. It's a tiny, brief little noise, but at least it's genuine. After everything that's happened, Jonghyun's managed to make him laugh. It feels strange, but nice.

“You've figured out my master plan,” Taemin says, chancing a small, nervous smile. “I faked all that so I could come in here and steal your blankets.”

Jonghyn pauses, just for a moment, and then resumes yanking at his blankets, tugging them out form under Taemin. “That wasn't fake,” he says simply, and manages to wrench part free and shimmy under them with Taemin.

They're so close, too close, and Taemin is sure that tomorrow this will be concerning. But right now, Jonghyun drapes an arm over him, as careless with his touch as he seems to always be, and it feels a lot like Jonghyun holding him, telling him that no one's going to hurt him. That Jonghyun won't let them.

“No,” Taemin whispers. “It wasn't.”

“Yeah,” Jonghyun says, and wraps the blankets tighter around them both. “Shut up and go to sleep if you can, okay? You really fucking need it right about now.”

Taemin nods. He doesn't think he'll get much, but at least, when he closes his eyes, he drifts. Eventually, sleep does manage to claim him, if only for a few hours, and he sleeps, deep and dreamless, in Jonghyun's arms.

--

Interlude Next Chapter: April 23

[kipjordan]

Tour Down Under, 2017

Full disclosure - there’s not a single photo of the pro Peloton ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Day 1

Well, a series of Jetstar & God’s blunders

I’m still relatively new to cycling, I’d say in the last 6 months I feel strong, really finding my stride, or (pedal) stroke, what have you. And I have these miasmic memories of missing out on #TdU2016 - suddenly everyone was gone and I was whipping my head around rasping “Huh? Td - what?”. And then came the photos, the videos, the enormous envy welling up inside me. 

So, jumping ahead to #TdU2017, I wanted to get there desperately. Thursday night came and I went, gliding on clouds of bliss to Tullamarine, Terminal 4. Lugging that bike bag, savouring it’s weight on my shoulder, leaving deep aching marks there, and deep imbued memories on my brain.

I watched the storm on Thursday 18th of January charge it’s way across the ocean, a cavalry of wind, rain and lightning thrashing it’s mane over the city. So much so in fact that we couldn’t land. A lap of Adelaide later and we returned to Melbourne. So went The Evening of Thursday 18th of January. Spent entirely in a flying metal tube. 

Day 1 

Okay let’s try this again

A 4:30am start with 3 hours sleep, a 6:30am flight complimented by a lukewarm and floppy McDonalds muffin-type breakfast. 8:30am and I’m in Adelaide, the living room of Andy, Caz, Jake and Gen. Jake greet me heartily with a warm “huh? you’re here already?”, his underpants hanging loosely to his lean Adelaidean cyclist leggos. We embraced, he is very kind and lovely. And together we sat in a silent morning daze, on the edge of nihilism in the face of another day, but as the rays of the sun fought their way through the blinds, we shook our heads clear of their dustiness and begun our days.

Bike built (with the help of Andy’s marvellous and very useful Park Tools Work Stand), coffee had and Ebenezer Place along with Treadly Bici Shoppe looked at, I joined Adrian and his crew of mischief makers for a self styled* “recovery ride”. *self styled becomes contextually importante

Here is where the riding begins, and by God, this was no recovery. I had been had. More than less, this was in search of down for the sake of up, short and sharp, anaerobic heart rates, sweat stinging the eyes. And a whole lot of smiles, sweeping descents and laughs. Okay, the photos begin now jeez

This ride was tough, by no means am I a mountain goat on bike, nor is my bike the stiffest $15,000 hot mess an Investment Banker in team kit would put on the card for points - but I reached each crest, and pushed past them. I also learnt the value in compact chainrings and the Dean Jones 32t Cassette Workout Programme, the hard way. 

This gruelling adventure, off the back of the Thursday night storm which lashed the windows of Adelaide, my plane and soul all equally, was exactly what I set out to be a part of. Tour Envy(tm) had been avoided, innate human desire for suffering and self destruction satiated, belly grumbling for nutrition and brain yearning for naps all ticked off in a 420 birds with one stone bonanza.

Big thanks to Alex, Adrian, Cam and Finn for having me along. Glad I could keep up - or that you kept a gentle pace ;)

We managed to make it in time for a little interview with Lachy Morton, hurr’ing and durr’ing as he does, and a little viewing of Thereabouts 3, with Lachy Morton’s hurr’ing and durr’ing offset by brother Gus Morton’s sharp green eyes and we were ready to eat.

Now, there aren’t any photos of my evening: a grand feast, the likes of which have never seen before, was had in the halls of Kopi Tim, Adelaide’s finest vegan friendly Malaysian restaurant. Why no photos? This is a photo bloggo after all you dolt. Well because it was one of those times, so sublime was my company that my finger ne’er did reach for a shutter - nay it didn’t reach for much other than food and my single accompanying beer (cheers to Max who joined my lead-out attack in that regard, and made me not feel like a freak in a bunch of healthy vibrant non-drinking... people who are really wonderful. This is sprawling). And so three meals inhaled down my gullet later we bid adieu to Kopi Tim and slowly rolled through the city, branching off as the intersections came and went. 

A big thank you to Andy, Caz, Jake, Gen, Sam, Fiona, Lana, Max and Faz for making that dinner sit as a trophy in my heart. These are fantastic people with big kind hearts, full of empathy and love. Big ups. 

Day 2

Willunga Return - pro cycling is very boring (terms and conditions apply*)

Because I am a very delicate flower I’m not used to back to back days of long riding, but there was something in the air, something in the water, food, bed linen, that invigorated the spirit and granted bonuses to Strength, Intelligence, Dexterity, Constitution, Wisdom and Charisma. It was essentially the DnD v5 character sheet with a Bard and Cleric char giving squad bonuses on a 5d5 roll that always hits. Duh, it’s a buff.

Now on the vein of me being a flower - I slept in, received messages from Caz along the lines of “where are you?”, “Get up and get here”, “We’re going to leave”, “Oh what?”, “Oops yes you’re right the ride doesn’t leave until 9am”. #ProHours Caz. Anyway, she did save me from myself, and as a flower does I rolled out of bed like a sack of potatoes, rolled into kit, rolled into town, rolled into the cafe and rolled some coffee into my body, then rolled into the hills on my bike, all the fashion of a sack of potatoes. 

This was a day spent cruising, some challenging difficult climbing, some loose gravel but always followed with smiles. That’s very much what this was - a day of smiles.

It’s really just a whole lot of me sitting on Andy’s wheel. I don’t have a single regret - that booty just so fine.

This was a long’un - a series of episodic run-ins with friends from all over, as if the entirety of Melbourne’s cyclist mass had migrated west, diving head first into the summer instead of patiently waiting it’s arrival back home. 

I’m just gushing and stammering madly about how good the entire time was - and thus I’d like to continue thanking people who helped make it so pleasant, in the extreme. Lana, Max, Andy, Tim, Alex, Faz (even though she relentlessly dropped us, forgetting, surely, for the entire day that she wasn’t in fact registered to race in the Tour itself), Caz, Gen and Jake for being a thoroughly entertaining and early rising support crew. And I’d like to thank myself for just being me, you know.

Of the evening itself I can’t remember much, perhaps in a fugue state I was unable to consolidate as my cup overflowth with joy - an analogous situation reminiscent of Socrates story of the Three Sieve:

From Lyceum Philosophy, Happy and Freedom in Socrates & Callicles:

A brief description of the two myths is in order. In the first one, Socrates speaks about those uninitiated ones in Hades who carry water into a leaky jar using a leaky sieve (where the sieve is meant to be the soul). And because they leak, he likens the souls of fools to sieves (493b-c). In the second, he tells of two men, each of whom has many jars. The jars belonging to one of them are sound and full (one with honey, another with milk, etc.). It is also supposed that the sources of each of these things are scarce and so attainable only with much toil. Now the one man, having filled up his jars, doesn’t pour anything more into them and so he can relax. As for the other man, he too has the resources that can be attained, though with difficulty, but his jars are perforated and rotten. And so he’s forced to continually fill them, all day round, or else he suffers frustration and pain (493d-494a). 

And yet Socrates, there I sat, a man with a full jar - happy as Larry with yet more to pour in and spill lavishly around the outside of what I envisage as a mason jar, full of a banana soy protein milkshake. I’ll stick to that, you enjoy your hemlock, bro.

I went to bed happy once again.

*Riding 3 hours to see Sagan not pop a wheelie for 3 seconds rates poorly. Pro cycling is a good view from a couch, and even then, most of the time it’s white noise until the final 10km. So if it’s not friends, or me, I don’t super care. This is just another person’s opinion.

Day 3

Let’s hit the hills, let’s feel sore and go to to a cafe

Hey it was something of a inner-chuff, feeling familiar with Montecute road, enough to pace myself at least to the top of Corkscrew. Having been duped by The Adrian Zanado ‘I don’t know how to run a recovery ride’ recovery ride, I decided not to give Corkscrew another strong burl. This decision was compounded by a half rotten corpse that used to be Mason Hender, that I found at the top (later analysis proved a solid 15km ave [or something], and roughly 300watts ave [I think thats like 8.5watts per kg]).

And on we went, resting here and there, enjoying the calm gentle afternoon. Time to stop by a clearwater babbling brook to watch the fish lazily wave their tails against the flow of the stream felt like something we could do for hours were it not for the immediately pressing of matter of getting Cam the fuck home asap as soon as goddamn fucking possible, holy shit they’re gonna fucking leave without him, shit what they dumped his stuff outside the hotel room? What the fuck, dude we’re like 60km and 1,000m up and away from there, fuck fuck okay lets fucking bomb down the old freeway oh fuck.

After the frantic descending at 70km/ph we finally bombed our way into the CBD to be greeted with this:

Were they happy that Cam’s ride took far far longer than we had possibly anticipated? We will never know, it’s one of those meta physical matters that only death would grant us the answers to. And yet, maybe not even then - who could possibly say.

What I can say is that the meal I had at this cafe was top notch. And out the window went my Melbournian elitism as Adelaide planted itself firmly as a strong contender for Second Capital City (Maybe) after Melbourne (and definitely never Sydney). In this scenario the whole of Canberra has dishonourably retired from the political and economic world after using tax payer money to buy apartments on the Gold Coast.

So in closing...

What can I say about TdU2017 and the people of Adelaide?

My heart swells - I can say that with a keen crystal clarity. I feel much love for the event of TdU, not specifically for the event itself - as well organised as it is. Not specifically for the city of Adelaide which opens it’s arms and accepts us all, allowing us to clog it’s road arteries and veins. It’s not even specifically the love of cycling itself, no - it’s very much the people on the bikes. 

Sure, I don’t know them all, that would be outrageous. But the ones I do know are the best of people. I wrote this earlier, and to repeat myself: I’ve found in them a great kindness, openness and empathy. Immediately they’ve warmed to new people and like their city, open their arms to us. I’m glad to know I’ll see them at least once a year for (hopefully) many many years to come.

Now this isn’t to say us Melbournian’s are the pits - nah we’re pretty great too. Some of the finest were out there, and for every moment I spent with them I am thoroughly appreciative. 

So in closing: smiles, laughter, a heavy pedal, sweat dripping from the tip of my nose after a deep exhale. These small moments made a whole, and it’s a whole I’ll treasure.

[gamesdownload-blog]

The Long Dark NEW GAME DOWNLOAD FOR PC [GOG-RELOADED]

The Long Dark NEW GAME DOWNLOAD FOR PC [GOG-RELOADED]

The Long Dark NEW GAME DOWNLOAD FOR PC [GOG-RELOADED]

Name:  The Long Dark

Works on:  PC | Windows (7 / 8 / 10) |

Release Date:  1 Aug, 2017

Game Type: Adventure, Indie, Simulation, Strategy

Size: 3.95 MB|

Game Modes: Singleplayer |

Published by: Hinterland Studio Inc. |

Developer: Hinterland Studio Inc. 

Language: English |

The Long Dark Free Download PC Game Cracked in Direct Link and Torrent. The Long Dark is a indie game where you don’t have to destroy anyone.

WELCOME TO THE QUIET APOCALYPSE

Bright lights flare across the night sky. The wind rages outside the thin walls of your wooden cabin. A wolf howls in the distance. You look at the meagre supplies in your pack, and wish for the days before the power mysteriously went out. How much longer will you survive?

THIS IS THE LONG DARK

The Long Dark is a thoughtful, exploration-survival experience that challenges solo players to think for themselves as they explore an expansive frozen wilderness in the aftermath of a geomagnetic disaster. There are no zombies — only you, the cold, and all the threats Mother Nature can muster.

WINTERMUTE

The episodic story-mode for The Long Dark, WINTERMUTE launches with two of the five episodes that form its Season One.

In Episode One: “Do Not Go Gentle”, bush pilot Will Mackenzie (player character) and Dr. Astrid Greenwood are separated after their plane crashes deep in the Northern Canadian wilderness in the aftermath of a mysterious flash of light in the sky. Struggling to survive as he desperately searches for Astrid, Mackenzie comes across the small town of Milton, where he begins to understand the scope of this quiet apocalypse.

In Episode Two: “Luminance Fugue”, Mackenzie’s search for Astrid takes him deeper into the savage Winter wilderness. A mysterious trapper may be the key to finding Astrid, but can he be trusted?The first two episodes of WINTERMUTE represent approximately 15 hours of gameplay. Episodes Three to Five are included in the price of the game, and will be unlocked for free as they are released.

Features performances by Jennifer Hale, Mark Meer, David Hayter, and Elias Toufexis (Episode Three), and the music of Cris Velasco.

SURVIVAL MODE

Survival Mode is the free-form, non-narrative survival sandbox that has been honed over nearly three years on Early Access.

No hand holding! The game challenges players to think for themselves by providing the information but never the answers. You have to earn the right to survive.

Permadeath! When you die in Survival Mode, your save is deleted. Every decision matters. [Note that WINTERMUTE does not feature permadeath.]

Condition and Calories: Monitor your Hunger, Thirst, Fatigue, and Cold as you struggle to balance resources with the energy needed to obtain them. Every action costs Calories, and time is your most precious resource. Choose your path carefully.

Scour the World for Supplies: Over 100 gear items including Tools, Light Sources, Weapons, First Aid supplies, Clothing, and more.

A Vast Living World: Explore a 50 square kilometre Northern Canadian wilderness in search of precious supplies. In Winter. Dynamic time of day, weather, wildlife presence, etc. provide just enough randomness to keep things challenging.

Survival of the Fittest: Hunt, fish, trap, climb, map, search for life-saving food and gear items, and try to avoid dying from the hostile wildlife, succumbing to hypothermia, frostbite, or dysentery (amongst other uncomfortable afflictions), find and maintain your life-saving gear.

Hunt or Be Hunted: Wildlife to hunt and be hunted by: Wolves, Bears, Rabbits, Deer, Crows, and more to come in future updates.

Choose Your Experience: Four distinct Experience Modes let you find a challenge level you are comfortable with, such as Pilgrim Mode, which is meant to be quiet and pensive, all the way to Interloper Mode, where only the most experienced survivors have a chance to last a week.Survival is your only goal, and death your only end. Make your own survival story with every game.

Features the music of Sascha Dikiciyan.

CHALLENGES

Several standalone Challenge Modes offer objective-based experiences designed to last 1-3 hours each, such as Whiteout — the race to gather enough supplies to prepare for a monster blizzard. Or Hunted, where you need to escape a murderous Bear. Complete them to unlock Feats that provide long-term gameplay benefits in Survival Mode. Five Challenges exist at launch, with more on the way in future updates.

FUTURE UPDATES

In addition to releasing the remaining three episodes of WINTERMUTE, we intend to continue updating Survival Mode, as we have done with about 100 updates/hotfixes over the past three years of Early Access. Keep in mind that your purchase of The Long Dark entitles you to all five episodes of WINTERMUTE, as well as updates to Survival Mode along the way.

ABOUT HINTERLAND

Hinterland is a small independent developer of original interactive entertainment. Based on Vancouver Island, Canada, Hinterland’s team is largely distributed across North America. Although The Long Dark is the studio’s first game, Hinterland is made up of veterans of the “triple-A” games industry, with lead developers from several renowned studios including Valve, Ubisoft Montreal, Relic, Volition, Capcom, Radical, BioWare, Sony London, and United Front games.

         MINIMUM:

OS: Windows XP

Processor: Dual-Core Intel i5 CPU @ 2GHz+

Memory: 4 GB RAM

Graphics: Intel 4xxx Series w/ 512MB VRAM or better

Storage: 1 GB available space

Sound Card: Any on-board chip will work.

Additional Notes: The game is in an Alpha state and is constantly being expanded and optimized. System requirements are subject to change until the game ships.

RECOMMENDED:

OS: Windows 7

Processor: Intel i7 CPU @ 2.6GHz or higher

Memory: 8 GB RAM

Graphics: nVidia GTX 555 w/ 1GB VRAM or better

Storage: 1 GB available space

Sound Card: Ideally, something with Surround capabilities.

Additional Notes: The game is in an Alpha state and is constantly being expanded and optimized. System requirements are subject to change until the game ships.