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sp00kz · 1 year

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Albatross Around Your Neck

Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back.

A/N: The story is set in the early to mid 80s. Also posted on Quotev and AO3, all five chapters are up on both. There aren't any warning for this chapter.

"And this flame

that burns inside

If you get too close

Burn you alive

Just one look in these eyes

and see if they lie

All these words I speak

You cannot deny"

-Danzig

A gush of red splatters onto the blurred bathroom windows far ahead. A soft cold breeze and chirps from the crickets distance you from the ill-fated scene before you. The small neighborhood below has its calm and suburban silence broken by a brief howl of terror. The familiar masked man concealed all in black, merely a diabolical shadow from your point of view, stood over a young man. Blood trailed down and dripped from the shivering arm shielding his face from the brutal attack. You sat crouched casually and comfortably blanketed behind the shadows, the front and right hand sides of the houses facing you gleefully. Due to the lack of street lamps that were kindly provided, the street is dark. The only light is from the household bathroom before you.

The mask covering your face caused your breath to bounce off and fill the small space, making the experience extremely stuffy, almost suffocating, yet not quite. Prickles of pain begin to swarm your knees as they fall asleep while trapped in your crouched position.

A final scream fills the night air, the lights of a neighboring house flashing on quickly, the other home owners of the neighborhood presumably heavy sleepers, (or maybe they've just got some thick walls and even thicker insulation). Shadows rush past the windows, you can hear an argument beginning to bubble, followed by their front door slamming open wide. A man drags himself outside, his pace a quick shuffle; nearly similar to a drunk man's dance, sleep still had a heavy hold on his body. He is only wearing colorful, fluffy socks and some loose fitting plaid pants, the idea of shoes long forgotten in this ordeal.

Once he'd made it to his neighbor's porch, the man began to bang on the front door, "Frank?! You in there, man?"

Luckily for the ghost-like figure you were watching, the neighbor was on the opposite side of the house. Either way, he seems to not mind the noise from the door, instead pressing the battered man's face again the glass. The dying man retaliates with perhaps what remains of his energy by clawing at the mask frozen in a scream, leaving blood trails in his pale finger's wake.

"C'mon man, you've got my wife worried sick." The man says again, a bit of a quiver to his voice as he talks to the door. He rings the doorbell as if he just noticed it was there and waits quietly for a response.

The small suburban neighborhood's calm night air is deathly quiet. The man seemed to grow impatient, his hands wringing together, his right foot nervously tapping against the faded welcome rug of the porch. Perhaps he was growing worried too.

The door bell must have gotten the mysterious ghost's attention, he dropped the man causing him to slide down the window slowly. The shadow paused for a moment before stumbling back and leaving your view. The bathroom light stayed on however. No one came to answer the door, instead, a shady character slinked past and into the shadows behind the homes.

The man at the door huffed, muttering some obscurities under his breath. He stood there for a moment longer, a final huff of annoyance before he walked back to his home. His home went dark not soon after.

Hands wrap hungrily around your throat.

You can't move.

You can't breath.

You're drowning in a world all your own.

They're watching from the shadows. You just know They are. You can sense it. Sense Them. You can feel Their sorrowful gaze raking against your cold and sweat drenched body. You can hear Them whisper of the things you've done. Oh, the terrible things. So many horrible, hideous, monstrous tragedies that you brought to Them. Others far more innocent than those who wished, begged, even prayed for their death.

Their tearful eyes dig into yours in a fierce and dangerous mixture of anger, fear, pain, horror. You reflect their emotions back to them, a jumbled mess of confused and burrowed emotion. Always hidden. Almost lost. But somehow still there, reaching out to you only in the prison of your your own unconscious mind.

Their hands are dragging you down into the dark water. Your lungs burn. Your heart stings. You can hear their cries reverberating through the water surrounding you. So many faces. So many eyes. You remember them all. Their spirits always with you. Their last moments of pain clinging to your skin. The pain is with you always. You can always sense it with you. The guilt. It haunts you.

The water grows darker, deeper. The blue light above fades, grows farther and farther from your outstretched hands. They surround you, their voices becoming one. Their bodies dragging you down into the depths. You close your eyes, you don't want to see any more.

It grows colder. It feels as though you're encased in ice. The water burns your skin as if it were fire. The pain seems endless.

Is this hell?

You breath in. You open your eyes. Darkness surrounds you, hugging every corner and crack of the small, cold space of your bedroom. You're home again, back in your bed.

You sit up and rub your arms, embrace yourself in false comfort. Cold sweat drenches you.

It was all a dream. It was only a dream.

You sit there for a moment, enjoying the warmth and safety of your bed.

The clock reads 2:45 AM, early enough. You saunter out of bed like a lousy bag of potatoes. Your warm feet are instantly frozen. The room is frigid from the fall air, a cold and unforgiving winter is closing in. The crickets chirp and dance outside your open window.

You scoop up an oversized sweater from the floor and slip it over your head to cover yourself as you walk out of your small bedroom.

A welcoming but eerie sliver of moonlight leads you out of your room and down the creaky hallway. The house feels as if it is falling apart. Each step letting you know of how well the house is settling on the uneven property. The quacking floorboards would be comical if it weren't for how old the overused shtick was getting.

The hallway is short, only having a single door on each side. One simply leads to the bathroom, the other to your bedroom. At the end of the hall is the back door, which you aren't even sure opens anymore, you haven't even attempted to use it since you moved in. A small table sat it front of it, a picture frame with a stock photo sat atop. Directly across from the hallway is a small window, outside there is a little meadow, gloomy trees surround it.

At the end of the hall the kitchen sits to your left, your right, the living space. The kitchen had an old propane stove, its burners appearing as if they had been morphed from old cast iron skillets, the metal had aged and not in a good way. Surrounding the stove to the left and right were wooden counters with cabinets within. To the left, the counters met with the wall which blocked the kitchen from the hallway. To the right, the counters met at a corner to form a lazy suzan cabinet then continued for a foot or two to meet with the stainless steel sink (which you'd replaced just last year). Above the sink was a window that showed a decent view of the large magnolia tree that grew next to the house. Next to the sink was another counter with a cabinet above.

The living space had an old dingy rug you had bought at a garage sale and a leather couch that came with the house, it smelled like a dog and was honestly likely used as a dog bed before. A box TV sat on top of a glass case which was showing off a phone book and a few old westerns. A dusty record player, most likely broken, sat sadly beside them. The TV could only play a couple channels, all in black and white.

The house rested near Amity, a small town in Arkansas, consisting of a population of barely 800. You had moved here only a year before, following the cases of the masked killer. You were lucky enough to even find a house out here that wasn't already a family home or broken down from weather and lack of care.

Despite it being the nearest town, it was still an hour's drive on a dirt road. The trip was filled with constant stop to let loggers pass you on the week days making it take much longer than intended just to get groceries. So, as to not spend most of the day on the road you started your own garden. It would help you through the summer, the winter only getting a break due to your lack of knowing how to can food.

You browsed through your kitchen looking for something to eat, a decent breakfast perhaps. Sadly, you only come across a can of baked beans and a stale bag of potato chips. It'll have to do considering there aren't any stores open at 3 in the morning.

After peeling the paper off of the can you struggled to pry the lid open with a knife and set the can onto the burner. Turning the knob, it clicks a few times in retaliation before the blue flame lights.

You filled a glass with tap water before sitting down at the table, only one chair, just for you.

The night was unusually quiet, the tapping of the leaky faucet, clicking of an incorrectly timed clock, and the hiss of the blue propane flame. Every now and then the creak of the house settling its roots could break through the quiet. You slowly sipped at your water, it eased away the dryness of your throat and the heaviness of your eyes.

After you finished half of the glass you stood up and reached to turn off the burner. Before you could, a loud and obnoxious ringing filled the air. You peered around the room dumbfounded before your eyes rested on the home phone on the wall. You had forgot its existence as you had yet to use it.

You watched it ring, wondering if you should pick it up or not. Wondering who would greet you on the other end of the line.

Stepping away from the can you'd placed on the stove, you took the phone off the line.

"Hello?" You questioned into the unknowing void.

"Hello." The voice on the other end echoed back, dark and gravely.

You slowly slump back down into your chair. It creaks under your weight. "Who is this?" You began.

"That depends, who are you?"

A nervous laugh leaves you, "and why is that?"

"You sure are an early bird, aren't you?" The gravely voice said, ignoring your question.

"I'm sorry?" You ask puzzled. You had honestly been expecting this to be a spam caller. How disappointing. Yet... intriguing?

There's a chuckle from the other side of the line, "Sounds like the little birdie has a lot of questions. I think I may have one for you too." They paused. "If you'll let me ask, that is?"

You think for a moment. Should you just hang up and enjoy your can of beans? Or continue this conversation with someone unknown to you but mildly interesting? "If you ask a question and I answer, you have to answer one of my questions."

"So.. like a game?"

"Yes, like a game."

The voice paused, maybe to grin at the achievement of starting a game. Maybe to think of a response. "I'm interested."

"Then ask away. You get to ask first." You responded, rocking your chair back onto two legs.

"Hm..." The other side of the phone was silent for a short moment. "What's your favorite song?"

A simple question. And yet, you have to think for a moment. Rocking your chair back down, you say: "Luckenbach, Texas. It's by Waylon Jennings."

There was a hum on the other side of the line, "I don't believe I've heard that one."

"Are you sure? It's quite popular here in Arkansas. If you live around here you've ought to have heard it."

"I can't recall that I have... how's it go?" Their voice dragged on sharp and gravely.

You smiled, could you remember the lyrics correctly even? You weren't really the best singer either. "Hm, well it goes about like baby, let's sell your diamond ring, buy some boots and faded jeans and go away." You hummed the lyrics, only slightly adding a rhythm.

"Maybe I have heard it. Maybe not."

"Well anyhow, now it's my turn to ask you a question,'" You say as you twist the phone cord around your finger, "What's your name?"

The line goes silent, as if they're thinking. Finally they answer, "Danny, what's yours birdie?"

You smirk and rock your chair again, "I don't know if I know you well enough yet to give you that information, Danny. We don't even know what each other look like."

"Oh, but that's not any fun I gave you my name. Besides, I know what you look like." The man says it smoothly, factually, like it's normal conversation. "I really like your sweater by the way, looks good on you."

The smirk leaves your face instantly and you quickly plant all four of the chair's legs back onto the tile, leaning forward in your chair. The room is suddenly much more colder than it was before, your breath seems as if it has been knocked out of you.

You can hear the smirk in his voice with his next words, "What, cat got your tongue birdie?"

You don't answer. Instead you glance around your small kitchen. Are they watching you right now? At this exact moment?

"Birdie." He hums out in a sing-songy voice, dragging the pet name out. "Don't get all paranoid on me. Did you think I wouldn't notice my little peeping tom?"

A shiver runs up your spine. You stare down at the hard wood of your table, gripping the phone to your ear with white knuckles. A knot was twisting in your stomach. Damn, you felt like a kid that'd just been caught stealing candy.

"A curious little birdie aren't you? With all the sneaking around you do? And that cute little devil mask you wear?" He sounded as if he were having some fun now. "I'd be lying if I said it didn't take me months to find out who you were. Gave me a fun little game to play." He snickered, "Though I did drag it out quite a bit, didn't want the fun to end, ya know."

You quickly stood up from the chair, it cracked loudly as it hit the ground. Your hands were shaking, cold and clammy.

"Oh and birdie?" He continued. "Don't forget about those beans on the stove. I wouldn't want a fire to start. Wouldn't want you to get hurt that way."

You glanced over at the boiling can, the beans bubbling and popping.

"See you soon." He chirped. The line went dead.

You drop the phone and rush over to the can on the stove, picking it up and setting it into the sink. You turn the faucet on quickly and cold water rushes over the burnt food. Your hand burns. You hadn't stopped to think before picking the can up with your bare hand.

A tired sigh leaves you and you lean over the sink defeated.

#fanfiction #fanfic #ghostface #scream #horror #1980s au #danny johnson #dead by daylight #action #phone calls #cat and mouse #reader insert #x reader #ghostface x reader #albatross around your neck

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theartistknownaslymond · 2 years

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Welcome to the pleasuredome!

(it’s a Frankie Goes to Hollywood reference)

Here I post aesthetics, reference, ficspiration, fanart, obnoxious playlists, and occasionally fanfic for my cursed 1980s band AU for the Lymond Chronicles.

I always welcome asks and requests! Wanna hear a playlist? Wanna know which character would listen to your favourite band? Want me to stop already? Just ask me and I will play! (but I won’t stop, sorry. I will add more tags if anyone needs them for blocking though)

Below the cut is a list of all the stuff in the band AU so far! I’ll try and keep it up to date.

Pre-series:

Prequel

Sibylla and her children watch the moon landing together in 1969, art by me.

Young Oonagh, illustrated by K

Jerott’s paternal grandmother, Deepa Anand, illustrated by K, with some backstory

Jerott’s mum, Kahina Bensaïd, illustrated by K, with some (a lot) of backstory, partly relating to Jerott

Music is a made-up thing like myth (posted chronologically on Ao3. Hasn’t updated in a while. Isn’t dead yet!)

Freshly victorious at the 1979 Solway Moss Battle of the Bands, young Francis Crawford, aka Lymond, finds himself stuck in an awful contract and an even worse relationship. Things don’t improve as his first US tour approaches and Lymond struggles to find artistic freedom.

Game of Kings

Eloise Crawford illustrated by K

Isolation (Richard reflects on the loss of his siblings)

Gunpoint (Lymond meets Dragut when he falls in with some mafia types)

Bleeding out (More mafia types)

Les gens ne te touchent pas/il faut faire le premier pas (Pune, India, 1981. Jerott Blyth is learning about himself with the guidance of Graham Reid Malett)

Returning to the UK, Lymond has to navigate rumours both personal and political: what role did he play in his sister's disappearance and just how involved was he with the mob in New York? In the meantime, uncertain of his record contract and his inheritance, he has to make a living: he tours relentlessly with bandmates Turkey Mat (drums), Will Scott (bass) and Christian Stewart (guitar).

Queens' Play

Francis in the style of Munch drawn by me

"Don't move" (Lymond wakes up from an accident to find Christian by his bedside)

Trembling (Philippa Somerville thinks her father has just returned - it turns out to be someone quite different)

Humiliation (Will Scott tries - and fails - to humiliate Lymond)

"Stay with me" (Richard pushes his injured brother too far)

West Germany, 1983: Ireland's Eurovision entry, ex-model Oonagh O'Dwyer, is forced to pull out because of industrial action at the Irish state broadcaster. Her partner, the playwright Cormac O’Connor, convinces her they may as well go to on that holiday to Munich and Berlin anyway. The Artist Formerly Known as Lymond, in a techno-goth outfit with Irish producer O'Liamroe, is on hand to disrupt events and keep an eye on young Mary Fleming, part of the British ensemble. But while he's there who can say no to a few illicit cross-border gigs in the GDR? Western decadence at its most provocative...

Disorderly Knights

Laced drink (Margaret Erskine is on hand to comfort Lymond in the aftermath of a heavy night)

Pinned down (Oonagh searches the wreckage in the aftermath of an illicit gig)

Seeking control over his career, Lymond decides to set up his own recording studio and fill it with hand-picked talent. In researching the kind of set-up he wants, he's pushed to get in touch with master producer Graham 'Gabriel' Reid Mallet, who is now a senior figure in the spiritual movement established by Rajneesh/Osho. As the miner's strikes rage on and police response toughens, the role of music in protest comes into sharper focus than ever.

Pawn in Frankincense

Shackled (Jerott Blyth witnesses the carnage at Orgreave picket line)

"Don't try to fix me." (Adam Blacklock thinks he recognises something about Joleta's behaviour)

Bloodied shirt (Everyone is sleep-deprived and grumpy as they leave Dumbarton in the middle of the night)

Stab wound (Lymond is late to a DJ set and misses an altercation)

Joleta and her favourite things drawn by K

Dragged away (Philippa and Joleta go for a night out in Edinburgh)

Scars (Joleta is curious about Lymond's scars)

Nightmare (Joleta stays over with Mariotta Crawford, trouble ensues)

Recovery and "None of this if your fault." (Philippa waits by her friend's bedside after an overdose). Illustrated by K.

It's your choice babe - so you choose well (Archive warning for rape, E. Gabriel/Jerott)

Oonagh and Joleta drawn by K

Oonagh in Rajneeshee red drawn by K

Abandoned (Oonagh O'Dwyer abandons her life in Europe for the promises of a Nebraskan ashram)

Breathe for two (Oonagh realises she's trapped at Graham Reid Malett's ashram)

It's time to try and break America - second time lucky?/Or will America break Lymond? As a front for a final showdown with Gabriel at his ashram in Nevada it's not exactly subtle, but at least Lymond gets to learn something about his family along the way.

The Ringed Castle

Human shield (Marthe takes Philippa into her first mosh pit)

Delirium (Jerott suffers with a combination of delerium tremens and cyanide poisoning)

Adrenaline (Luckily, there's a telenovela star called Dona Maria there to get him out of jail)

Asphyxiation (still suffering from the poisoning, Jerott wakes up at Baron Morgan's motel)

Secret injury (Gabriel doesn't want Jerott to leave the ashram)

This is it, that's the end of the joke (Jerott is at Graham Reid Malett's mercy immediately after his escape attempt).

Jerott in the style of Munch

The only one keeping me sane. (Marthe takes care of Oonagh at the ashram).

Marthe's t-shirts, illustrated by K

Unconscious (Lymond and a small blond boy sleep off their adventures)

Ransom (Gabriel catches up with them in Vegas)

Hallucination (Archie figures out the cause of Lymond's present malady)

Muffled scream (Philippa and Lymond share a Vegas hotel room)

Tear-stained (Oonagh and her son are going home)

Anemone (Jerott accompanies Francis into rehab; he's in denial about a number of things though)

Marthe and Oonagh, illustrated by K

Más é an ceol bia an ghrá (One night stands in Dublin: Marthe goes to Oonagh's leaving party, Jerott stays in the hotel bar)

1987, glasnost: Lymond and an ambitious group of artists, experimental sound technicians and musicians are invited to tour behind the iron curtain alongside Ukrainian bete noir Baida and his band. The tour is to be filmed by ex-propaganda director Ivan Vasilyevich. Meanwhile Red Wedge tries its hardest to get the people of Britain to vote in a non-Tory government at the general election.

Checkmate

Stitches Adam Blacklock has had a rough night)

Numb (Richard encounters his brother in Dundee)

Embrace (a version of the Languish Locked in L scene)

Philippa's Raspberry Beret drawn by me.

??Profit?? No really I need to write more of the rest before I know what the fall-out here is going to look like. It will probably involve: Nelson Mandela's 70th Birthday Concert, the opening of the Cairo Opera House and the Fall of the Berlin Wall.

Post-Checkmate

Beaten (Jerott Blyth has been behaving badly)

All we need is music, sweet music (After a successful gig in Calais, Jerott longs to be closer to Francis)

Soap, soup and salvation (Danny teaches Adam to cook for Kate)

Coisich, a rùin [come, my love] (a series of scenes in Francis and Philippa's relationship)

Spoilers for overarching plot NO REALLY POST-CM SPOILERS

Don't wake the house (Jerott breaks down on an half-familiar (OC's) shoulder post-Checkmate)

Jerott, Archie, Adam and Kate get ice cream, drawn by me

A love that seems great beyond growth (in need of rest and recovery, Marthe visits Oonagh in her new life)

"Would you just hold still?" and What I love about many waters (Philippa and Joleta go for cocktails. Lymond helps his wife through the hangover)

"Don't look at me like that." and "When you smile..." (domestic, married fluff with Francis and Philippa).

Pushin' palaces to fall (Thompson the pirate causes trouble for the Crawfords. He gets trouble back)

Morosexual (Danny has a tearful admission to make to Jerott)

If this name wasn't on my lips (Danny/Jerott record collection-based fluff)

Explosion (It's a prequel)

Period-appropriate playlists (links to Spotify, sorry)

A Purely Spiritual Love (you may hear this at Graham Reid Malett’s ashram)

In a position of ascendancy... / ...a knife gripped in each hand (inspiration from Danny and Adam’s Jewish background)

Every Cell Charged with Stark Common Sense (young Philippa’s folk influences)

tant que je vive (Francis/Philippa happily ever after)

A twinge of approval (Danny/Jerott happily ever after)

Nothing but the Cathartic (Francis thinks Sibylla and Richard are dead)

Feared before God and the Devil (soundtrack to The Ringed Castle)

Come to Linger (Adam/Kate happily ever after)

Such Hapless Hap (Francis pining over Philippa)

Hard-wrought with Unleashed Storms (an Oonagh O’Dwyer playlist)

Stop your breath (a Joleta Reid Malett playlist)

By Some Alchemy (an Archie Abernethy playlist. DRUMS!)

#pinned post #housekeeping #the lymond chronicles #lymond chronicles #lymond #dorothy dunnett #the band au #1980s au

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