#no idea if i ended up fixing the volume. its my first day using audacity decided it was time to pick up a new skill | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

thessalian · 2 years

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Thess vs The Audacity

Today can only be described as a “What the fuck is WRONG with you people?!?” day.

First thing was getting to work and discovering that somehow, despite everyone having been in on Monday, and my having sorted out people’s computer issues the previous week, the backlog got worse. There were about 350 outstanding dictations when I got in. We managed to whittle it down a bit, but of course, the moment Scruffman’s back was turned, it turned into quite the gab session. Again. Also Temp tried her hardest to avoid doing the long typing again, but either someone caught her at it or she has some sense of shame and realised she couldn’t really get away with that when the time stamp would make it three hours’ worth of obvious that she wasn’t going in chronological order. So, yeah, seriously, all manner of “What the fuck is wrong with you people?!?”

Also, I honestly thought that it was pretty obvious that the first thing you do if you’re having trouble with the sound on anything that produces sound is to check the volume control, but apparently not, because when I got in, Goblin said, “Oh, hey, I travel on the bus to and from work with some of the nurses over at the Trust’s other hospital and they’re having their computers upgraded too and they were having the exact same problem so I told them how you fixed it for us so you’ve helped more than just our office with this”. I mean, yay, glad I helped, but ... seriously, how is checking the volume not your first move? Again, “what the fuck is WRONG with you people?!?”

I was a bit late home today because I needed to go and get a haircut. And that was ... well, let’s just say I am never using that salon again. Not that the haircut was bad - quite the opposite, and the hairdresser was a good guy. The lady at the reception desk, on the other hand... Well, first thing out of her mouth was, “We won’t charge you more this time but your hair technically counts as medium, not short”. Which ... I mean ... the longer end of my hair was only a bit below my jaw, so I have no idea how they’re calculating that. My hair has qualified as ‘short’ ever since I started rocking the asymmetrical pixie cut, at least at my salon, and at the one in my neighbourhood that I tried when my salon shut down because of Covid-related business problems. But ... I mean ... okay... The perils of booking online, she said, though I’m not sure how my doing it by phone would have been any better.

Anyway, after a gorgeous shampooing (wonderful neck massage as an added perk; ended way too soon) and a great haircut by a dude who didn’t feel the need to fill the entire proceedings with idle chit-chat, I went back to pay and the lady at the reception desk goes, “We won’t charge you extra this time...” and I apologised and tried to explain as how the salons I’d been to in the past considered my hair ‘short’ if it didn’t touch my shoulders. But ... that’s not what she was on about. She said, “Technically, your hair was styled, not cut”.

..................Excuse you? It was a fucking trim. The essential shape of it was not changed. It just got shorter, with the layers fixed a bit. It was like when a topiary gets overgrown and you have to trim it a bit to maintain its shape. It hardly took any time to do by salon appointment standards. No product, no tools except scissors and clippers ... so how the fuck was that ‘styled’? My hair was already in the style; it was just shaggier than I like so I got it trimmed!

So, no, if that salon’s going to move the goalposts on me, no matter how much I liked hairdresser dude ... not going back. I mean, at least they didn’t charge me extra, but the fact that she was making such a big deal about how they supposedly should have was hugely offputting. I know hairdressers have their own standards for what constitutes these things, but I tend to consider a style being something that at the very least changes the shape your hair had when you arrived in some significant way. Not a fucking tidy-up. So ... yeah, again, “What the fuck is wrong with you people?” was a theme. But I no longer look like a Briard, so I’m happy and will remain happy with it for the next few months. Then I need to find a salon that’s not going to move the goalposts if I so much as sneeze. I guess the salon in this area was okay. Not great, but okay. I’ll see what else Dulwich and Forest Hill have to offer.

Maybe it’s a Camden thing, I dunno. I guess if you’re in the major tourist hotspot, you can afford to be ... flexible about those kinds of terms. And maybe you have to be, since the guy who owns the area A) has raised the fees and rents to insane degrees and B) is now attempting to sell it for a couple of billion pounds. The Camden Lock Market, specifically. Gods, that was a blow to find out. Not only is it one of the few spots in that area that hasn’t been gentrified entirely to fuck (just ... partly to fuck), but it’s hard to read about someone selling property for a couple of billion when something like half the country has been making use of food banks.

Right. No. None of that. It’s already been a hugely bad pain day and I had to push it because the backlog my idiot colleagues let build up and the last thing I need is to stress myself out by boggling over the stupidity and/or audacity of the people around me.

#Thess has a day job

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itmighthavebeenintentional · 4 years

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Shackled Ch 9

Summary: After nearly ten years, Sam Winchester calls Miriam Bard to collect on a life debt. Unfortunately for Miriam, Sam leaves out a few important details.

WARNINGS CHANGE EACH CHAPTER, PLEASE CHECK EACH TIME.

Warning: Show level violence, implied loss of family, grieving, depression, spiraling, cursing, Demon!Dean, emotional manipulation, mind fuckery, psychological manipulation, questioning one’s sanity, emotional exhaustion, depression, blood, consuming blood, sexual content, biting, mental/emotional/psychological abuse, pushing another to commit suicide, mental anguish.

Word Count: 2678

Author’s Note: Eternal thanks to @cracksinthewalls for edits, suggestions, and all the flails. This chapter was the first picture I had in my head of this story, so extra thanks to @thoughtslikeaminefield for urging me to actually write it out; wouldn’t have this story without you. Please read/heed the warnings. 18+ ONLY. .

In case you missed it: Ch 1 | Ch 2 | Ch 3 | Ch 4 | Ch 5 | Ch 6 | Ch 7 | Ch 8 Masterlist

Chapter 9

After the emotional train wreck of the morning, Miriam’s body screamed for a nap, sleep, any respite from consciousness, but she stubbornly fixed her second pot of coffee for the day. Sure, it didn't actually work for the kids in the Freddy Krueger movies, but they’d been trying to stay up for days and days. She just needed to make it until Sam got back tonight.

Hopefully.

A very bracing cold shower helped sweep a few more cobwebs from the corners of her brain. After she’d gone through her gear and figured out the laundry situation, though, she couldn’t think of any further excuses to avoid the demonic elephant in the bunker.

Just saving my sanity and soul, she thought bitterly. That’s all.

Miriam brought a chair with her this time, thinking it would at least be more comfortable than sitting on the floor. She’d briefly considered bringing one of the thick volumes from the library, but she knew better than to think the demon would actually give her peace enough to read.

He greeted her with wary silence, his human eyes suspicious and watchful. She dropped into the chair and faced Dean, determined not to show any of the anxiety that clawed her insides.

She stayed back, well clear of the devil’s trap, though she didn’t know how much good that would do. If he could project himself into her dreams outside the room, could he read her thoughts outside of the circle, as well?

She crossed her arms, leaning back and studying his face silently. She’d be lying if she said he hadn’t aged well. She’d been so distraught about Aaron’s close call the first time she’d met the Winchesters that she hadn’t truly noticed just how pretty Dean had been. Seeing those old pictures of him had shown her current self exactly what her younger self had been too distracted to notice.

Now, though. God, it was like someone had hand-picked each of his features and thought, How could this get any better?

She shook her head at her traitorous thoughts, snorting derisively.

“It’s rude to stare, y’know. Whatcha been up to, Miri?”

Her eye twitched at his use of her nickname; only Aaron had ever been allowed to call her that. Of course, Dean noted her reaction, probably filed it away for further use. He took in her defensive posture and uneasy silence, and he grinned.

“Heard from Sam? What’s the hold-up? Couldn’t find a padre to do the blessing? Couldn’t get enough blood?”

A half-dozen questions popped into Miriam’s head, but she didn’t take his bait. After all, even if she did ask him, she had no way to gauge if he would tell her the truth.

“I’ve never lied to you,” Dean said. She scoffed, and he had the audacity to appear offended.

“You don’t get to play mindfuck and then claim innocence,” Miriam said. Her headache returned with a vengeance, and suddenly it was all she could do to stay awake. She knew she couldn’t stand up to a mental sparring match with him, but apparently she didn’t have the simple common sense to not engage in the first place.

“Never claimed to be innocent, Miri. Just said I never lied. I would love to eat you up, and if I get the chance, I’ll gladly show you how that little torture scenario earlier should have gone.”

“Yeah, well, Sam will be back tonight, so don’t count on that chance, princess,” she shot back.

Dean ignored her insult. “Lotta hours between then and now. How you wanna fill ‘em?”

“Not listening to you,” she muttered, and just like that she was finished. She stood, done with sentry duty, and turned her back on Dean. He was still bound, he didn’t actually need anything from her, and there was no point sitting around letting him needle her until he got even further under skin.

“You’re worse than a bad tattoo,” she said, then immediately wished she hadn't spoken. Ten minutes in a room with him, and her self-control evaporated.

“Still running that mouth, huh? When are you gonna learn your lesson, Miri? You don’t have any more brothers to lose.”

She stiffened, hands digging into the top of the chair. She heard the pinching noise of her fingernails cutting into the leather, but upholstery was the last thing on her mind.

“Don’t,” she spit out, not sure if she was telling herself or the demon.

“Sam and I never should have stopped that witch. You might have learned your lesson a long time ago, saved everyone years of trouble.”

A fury began to build in the back of her mind, hotter than any she’d felt before. Miriam had been to the depths of so many emotions in her life: the limitless if irritated love for her brother, the fierce pride of her first successful hunt, the guilt and despair of losing Aaron, the confusion and aimlessness of the last year without him.

But never in her life had Miriam felt anything as terrible and all-consuming as this rage.

“Y’know what, I’ve got a pesky little brother problem I need solved. You seem to be pretty skilled in that area; help a demon out?”

Anything else Dean was about to say was cut off by Miriam’s fist colliding with his jaw. The demon’s head snapped to the side, and he remained in that position as Miriam glared down at him, hands at the ready. Her chest heaved with the effort of holding back.

And then she saw the bastard’s shoulders shaking; he was laughing at her. He turned his head, licking the blood from his split lip, his grin wide and infuriatingly smug. She didn’t even realize she’d hit him again until her fist began to sting. There was roaring in her ears, and blood streamed from the demon’s nose.

And still he laughed.

She screamed, her words lost in a storm of wrath, her only thought that she had to end him now. Her vision blurred as she hit him again and again, the pounding in her brain reaching a maelstrom. And then, suddenly, everything shrank down to a tiny pinpoint in the universe, the two of them caught in the eye of the storm, the hunter and the darkness, everything else shut out.

“Do it, sweetheart.”

Miriam was bent over Dean, one foot planted on the floor, her other knee pressed hard into his chest, the hair at the back of his head clenched in her fist. She'd dragged his head back, exposing the thick column of his neck, and she pressed the demon blade against his Adam’s apple just shy of splitting the skin.

“Atta girl,” he said. His smile was knowing now, his voice the embodiment of calm as he pressed his neck against the blade. A thread of crimson appeared where metal touched his skin, and her fury wavered. “Go ahead and betray Sam’s trust. Isn't that what you do with brothers? Kill ‘em, betray ‘em, but either way you let ‘em down, right?”

Blood trickled down Dean’s throat, and Miriam’s frenetic heartbeat began to slow as her eyes tracked its path.

“Miri.”

Obsidian eyes caught her gaze; Dean’s expression was serene. As she watched, the bruises and cuts on began to close up, leaving behind threads and smears of blood without sources. He leaned towards her until their faces were inches apart, and she relented with the knife until it rested in her numb fingers against his collarbone.

“Use your words, Miriam. Tell me what you want.”

The dream reverberated in her abruptly still mind, and she nearly dropped the blade. He stared her down, lips drawn, canines bared.

“Make a fucking decision,” he said, and though his voice was soft, velveted, it carried easily around the room. “Say it, Miriam. Say what you want.”

I don’t want this, her mind echoed, but it was a lie now, just as it had been in the dream. She wanted to forget, to lose herself in something besides the pain.

I want him, she thought.

She dropped the knife.

The demon blade fell, struck the toe of Dean’s boot, and spun away across the floor. Her splayed fingers clutched the material of his shirt as her head swam. She lowered her knee from his chest, sliding it down until it wedged into the space between his hip and the arm of the chair.

Her breath came in fits and stops, harsh and ragged against the frantic pounding of her heart. Dean lifted an eyebrow in challenge, his only reaction as she swung her other leg up to straddle him.

She tightened her grip on the collar of his shirt for balance and leverage to yank him close enough to bring their lips together. She closed her mouth over the freshly healed cut and bit down hard as she sank fully onto his lap. She felt the vibration of Dean’s growl in her chest.

When she finally pulled away, the salty, iron tang of his blood coated her tongue. His lips curled up on one side, and he slumped a little in the confines of his chair, sliding down and spreading his thighs further apart beneath her.

“Sure as hell hope you fuck like you kiss.”

The air had taken on a surreal, shimmering quality, and Miriam had no idea if she was awake or asleep anymore. She moved with slow deliberation, feeling as if she was underwater.

Drowning, she thought briefly as she threaded her fingers into Dean’s hair and kissed him again. Her tongue swept across his, and he flexed his thighs beneath her. A sharp hunger lanced straight to the pit of her stomach.

“Lose your clothes.”

At any other time, Miriam would have balked at the orders, at the sheer arrogance of his words and tone, but she didn’t want to care, didn’t want to think or decide.

She simply stood and did as she was told.

“Let me loose.”

Even in her dazed state, she didn’t dare set Dean free from his bonds, not that she had any way of opening the handcuffs. Instead, she dropped to her knees and worked on his belt and jeans, loosening and opening until he was as bare to her as he could get.

He caught and held her gaze for a long, silent moment, the air muffled and thick around them. Apparently satisfied with what he read on her face, he nodded and wet his lips slowly with the tip of his tongue.

“Come here,” he said with all the command of a king on his throne. And she did.

His fingers rippled against the arms of his chair, his eyes heavy-lidded as she sank onto the length of him. Every muscle in her belly was tense and heavy, and her walls clenched around him. He exhaled sharply, head going back for just a moment before he leaned forward, locking her in place with the force of his midnight gaze.

“Again,” he said. And she did.

She rode him slowly at first, still warring with herself deep inside. This broke with everything she’d ever been taught as a hunter, everything she’d ever believed. But hadn’t she lost everything that mattered to her because she followed those lessons, those beliefs?

She had paid for this freedom in blood, both hers and Aaron’s. She didn’t deserve this; she had goddamn earned it.

She looked into the eyes of the demon before her, bottomless wells of oblivion. There was no hesitation, no regret or worry or doubt. His features were awash with simple, carnal pleasure, a hunger that pulled her deeper, beckoned her to take the plunge and lose herself once and for all.

“Take what you want,” Dean said. His voice was low, rough, and it rasped down her spine. She sucked in a breath, rolling her hips, and he bared his teeth in a feral snarl. Her head dropped, their foreheads pressed together as she moved against him. Her nails dug into the back of his neck as the storm within her built to a crescendo.

Jump, she thought, just let go and jump. End this, end the pain.

“Get out of your head,” he growled, the tendons of his neck hard and strained beneath her fingers. A shock of unmitigated lust spiraled out from Miriam’s belly, flaring through every nerve in her body. Her back arched as she let out a hoarse gasp, her hands clawing at his shoulders.

“Stop thinking, stop caring, and just fucking take what you want.”

Her teeth sank into the smooth, taut column of his throat. Darkness exploded through her vision as the storm peaked. A harsh, guttural groan worked its way out of the demon’s throat as he shuddered within her, his curses reverberating in the very marrow of her bones. She rose and fell a final time before shattering around him.

…

“So, what now? Whatcha gonna do with all that newfound freedom and...what do the kids call it these days? Self-awareness?”

She ignored Dean, focusing on dressing herself as quickly as possible. She’d cleaned Dean up after they finished, feeling clumsy and detached from her body, and he’d been uncharacteristically silent as he watched her.

Her emotions seemed to have short-circuited somewhere in the middle of the chaos. She should feel ashamed, terrified, appalled by what she’d done. She should feel any number of negative, repulsed emotions, and instead, she felt more lost than ever.

What did she want now? Aaron was still gone. She was still alone. She had no desire to hunt. Or really do much of anything. Except…

“I’m all for another round, sweetheart. Maybe if you scratch that itch another time or two, you’ll actually figure out how to make that freedom permanent.”

“What do you…” Miriam trailed off, icy tendrils shame and dread creeping up her spine.

“Don’t tell me you thought a big, strong man was gonna solve all your problems.” He laughed, and acid washed through her stomach. “Sweetheart, I’m a demon: guilt-free zone over here. You want free of all that human emotional bullshit for good?”

His smile was hard, predatory, and she swallowed against the knot of alarm that tightened her throat.

“We’re hunters. You know how this works: you want free of all the complications that come with that soul, you got two ways out. Let me go, we make a deal, I take care of all those pesky emotions of yours.”

He waited as the weight of his words sank into her before casually adding, “Or you could just go take care of the problem yourself like a big girl. Save us all a lot of trouble. What do you say?”

He laughed aloud again at her shocked expression. “What’d you think, that we’d be all cuddles and kisses now that we’ve fucked? You’ve been dancing around me since you got here. Maybe you’re still too much of a coward to say it out loud, but you know what’s pulling you to me. No one plays with demons for fun, Miri.”

The image of a mirror, a seedy motel room, a gun flashed through Miriam’s mind. She throttled down the memory, but it was too fast. He’d seen.

“You're a hunter who can’t hunt anymore. You got your brother killed. You were supposed to guard me, and instead you fuck me. What’s the point of you? You got nothin’ left. You’re useless.”

“I-”

“Look at yourself,” he roared, and she fell back a step at his sudden vehemence. “This here is rock bottom, Miri. You’ve failed at everything else. You gonna fuck this up, too? There’s only one place further down. You want oblivion, you wanna be done with this life?”

She tried to sucked in a breath through paralyzed lungs as she backed away from the demon. Her heart crashed against her ribs, and for the first time she knew what Dean was going to say before the words left his smiling lips.

“You got one way out now. So do everyone a favor and take it.”

…

Chapter 10

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