♥ grayglube wrote 'Jungianism' for luvscharlie 3/3 ♥
Title: Jungianism 3/3
Author: grayglube
Summary: It's tragic. But the house is full of tragic things.
Spoilers/Warnings/Triggers: language, sexual content, consensual breathplay, violence, trigger mentions of sexual assault, small bit of gore-ish material, angest
Author's Notes: I had this idea that the theme of this was the different ways people hate each other and then somehow I was convinced it was about ways people love each other. But it's really not. It's about hating people. I told Jandy it felt like I was pulling a Tarantino with this fic. She told me she didn't think Tate would mind that at all. She's a funny lady and a terrific mod. It's a story in three parts. And like I said it's more a story about a theme than anything else. The quotes before each part are from Carl Jung, a famous psychoanalyst. I gave each pairing suggested in the prompt a go in a non-smut way. There is smut just for a pairing not suggested.
( Jungianism 1/3 )
( Jungianism 2/3 )
Jungianism 3/3
PART III:
The more one sees of human fate and the more one examines its secret springs of action, the more one is impressed by the strength of unconscious motives and by the limitations of free choice.
Watching her now is like watching her as she was years and years ago when she was sitting at a desk in the classroom that always sent him home with the scent of dry erase markers and rug deodorizer lodged in his pores.
She reminded him of a time and not so much a person or anything else. A time when He and Vivien were thrown together in a sterile classroom setting.
He and Hayden's classroom relationship was anything but sterile.
Now that he doesn't loathe his marriage and now that Vivien's disposition is more honeymoon lover than soon to be ex-wife he sees all the things about the woman, more girl than woman now that he's really looking at her, that he temporarily replaced his wife with during her physical and emotional lockdown.
Hayden is pensive, remote even, when she sits alone in the gazebo he erected. A memorial to her unfound bones. He wonders if the baby was something she loved. He decides she would have been a good mother had she been older when it happened. She should have finished school. She should have started her own practice.
But she decided that fucking him was more important. Stupid girl. Now all there is for her to do is bide her time with haphazard fucking and silent introspection of her poor life choices in the grave marker put up by a lover who is no longer her lover.
It's tragic. But the house is full of tragic things.
He's turning to go back into the house when he sees the monster with the face of a boy kiss his daughter.
He wonders when she turned into such a monster herself.
Wonders if it was something from his and her mother's nature blended together that made her that way or if it was Tate's nurture that became as much of a coffin nail as her cigarettes or razorblades were.
____________________________________________________
She has the homecare nurse read her one of the old letters from the cowardly Lawrence. It's one from the time of their lives when he was still married to his unfortunate looking wife whose name escapes her now.
It's florid by her standards but not particularly creative.
The stupid son of a bitch next door makes eyes at his little whore. Men always have their whores.
Michael made one of her last nurse.
If the same happens again with the new one she'll have to settle on one who's not interested in boys, despite her own aversion to those sort of women.
The letter is full of doleful little similes that only a man as boring as Lawrence could come up with and despite what the silly man must have thought quoting Shakespeare is not as tried and true of a method of getting under a lady's skirt.
Poets are a waste she’s decided.
Weak men are useless.
Her Michael is neither.
She wants a cigarette but her nurse says she can't smoke next to the oxygen tank. She supposes it's for the best unless she wants to end up burnt up like Lawrence. There's time for another letter before it gets too dark out and the bugs start to swarm around the porch light.
Her nurse pulls open a hat box of what she had been told was old love letters kept by an old woman who used to be beautiful and cruel and sad who is now just tired and very, very old
But there's not letters in the box.
Just a dried construction paper crafted flower with 'MAMA' inscribed on it.
There's a poem underneath written in child's scrawl.
_________________________________________________________
Anyone upstairs can hear them. He wonders if that's the point. Mostly it's the off and on bang of the headboard every so often and sometimes it's the wet echoing slap of skin and very rarely there's a moan or a gasp.
He drains his third glass of a supermarket red.
It’s an awful fruity wine that tastes as sticky as it looks. He'll have a sour stomach by the end of the night.
Pat sits across the kitchen island not speaking to him again. Sometimes even his stony silences are better than his absences.
"Were we ever like that? I can't remember."
Pat smiles because he knows he's drunk.
But he obligingly answers all the same.
"Louder."
"I saw that old bitch today."
"Thank god she can't walk anymore."
"Small favors."
"Do you think she really forgave him?"
"Hating someone for a long time makes you tired, Pat."
There's a hand lying open on the counter. A parlay of sorts he supposes. He curls his fingers around the stemware and pours another glass instead.
_________________________________________________________
He's been able to see them since he was born.
Now he sits on the back stoop with his economics textbook or whatever book they're reading that semester in British literature.
Sometimes he isn’t alone on stoop. If his mother’s particularly edgy he gives her a Xanax cocktail and smokes cigarettes with her nurse.
She does her paperwork while he tries to keep track of who's fucking who and who's killing who next door.
Sometimes he sees a woman who he thinks he’s seen before but can't place. Like a dream of a mother he may have had once.
He sees a boy who could be his brother and a small fragile girl kiss in shade of the house during the blue dusk of early evening.
He wonders what his mother’s pretty nurse would say if he offered to show her the house, he thinks she’d probably take the gore in stride because she has enough gruesome stories to share about her other job at the hospital to write a book, to keep him enthusiastically rapt with the way her mouth forms words laypersons would have to look up.
He wonders what would happen if she hit her head on the rocks on the other side of the property line.
He wonders what her hair would look like with blood in it.
She's too pretty to get old anyway.
He thinks he may be in love and it'd be awful to fall out of it just because one day her face and body would sag.
But it doesn't have to.
_________________________________________________________
FIC PROMPT
Preferred Character: Ben/Hayden, Chad/Patrick, Constance/Larry, Ben/Tate
Squicks/Character Pairings You Do Not Want: I am honestly game for anything that isn't femme. If my pairings don't jump start your bunny, please feel free to write me another pairing-just please no femme. I like rough sex (with zero squicks) just as much as I like the warm and fuzzy.
Possible Scenarios/Themes/Lines to incorporate: If you close your eyes real tight and forget real hard, sometimes you almost don't remember you're not alive.
Preferred Rating: Any
Strictly Canon, AU, Doesn’t Matter: Doesn't Matter
**Mystery Author - Please remember that if you're going to reply to reviews/comments - please do so without logging in and revealing yourself. Anon comments are allowed.
Author: grayglube
Summary: It's tragic. But the house is full of tragic things.
Spoilers/Warnings/Triggers: language, sexual content, consensual breathplay, violence, trigger mentions of sexual assault, small bit of gore-ish material, angest
Author's Notes: I had this idea that the theme of this was the different ways people hate each other and then somehow I was convinced it was about ways people love each other. But it's really not. It's about hating people. I told Jandy it felt like I was pulling a Tarantino with this fic. She told me she didn't think Tate would mind that at all. She's a funny lady and a terrific mod. It's a story in three parts. And like I said it's more a story about a theme than anything else. The quotes before each part are from Carl Jung, a famous psychoanalyst. I gave each pairing suggested in the prompt a go in a non-smut way. There is smut just for a pairing not suggested.
( Jungianism 1/3 )
( Jungianism 2/3 )
Jungianism 3/3
PART III:
The more one sees of human fate and the more one examines its secret springs of action, the more one is impressed by the strength of unconscious motives and by the limitations of free choice.
Watching her now is like watching her as she was years and years ago when she was sitting at a desk in the classroom that always sent him home with the scent of dry erase markers and rug deodorizer lodged in his pores.
She reminded him of a time and not so much a person or anything else. A time when He and Vivien were thrown together in a sterile classroom setting.
He and Hayden's classroom relationship was anything but sterile.
Now that he doesn't loathe his marriage and now that Vivien's disposition is more honeymoon lover than soon to be ex-wife he sees all the things about the woman, more girl than woman now that he's really looking at her, that he temporarily replaced his wife with during her physical and emotional lockdown.
Hayden is pensive, remote even, when she sits alone in the gazebo he erected. A memorial to her unfound bones. He wonders if the baby was something she loved. He decides she would have been a good mother had she been older when it happened. She should have finished school. She should have started her own practice.
But she decided that fucking him was more important. Stupid girl. Now all there is for her to do is bide her time with haphazard fucking and silent introspection of her poor life choices in the grave marker put up by a lover who is no longer her lover.
It's tragic. But the house is full of tragic things.
He's turning to go back into the house when he sees the monster with the face of a boy kiss his daughter.
He wonders when she turned into such a monster herself.
Wonders if it was something from his and her mother's nature blended together that made her that way or if it was Tate's nurture that became as much of a coffin nail as her cigarettes or razorblades were.
____________________________________________________
She has the homecare nurse read her one of the old letters from the cowardly Lawrence. It's one from the time of their lives when he was still married to his unfortunate looking wife whose name escapes her now.
It's florid by her standards but not particularly creative.
The stupid son of a bitch next door makes eyes at his little whore. Men always have their whores.
Michael made one of her last nurse.
If the same happens again with the new one she'll have to settle on one who's not interested in boys, despite her own aversion to those sort of women.
The letter is full of doleful little similes that only a man as boring as Lawrence could come up with and despite what the silly man must have thought quoting Shakespeare is not as tried and true of a method of getting under a lady's skirt.
Poets are a waste she’s decided.
Weak men are useless.
Her Michael is neither.
She wants a cigarette but her nurse says she can't smoke next to the oxygen tank. She supposes it's for the best unless she wants to end up burnt up like Lawrence. There's time for another letter before it gets too dark out and the bugs start to swarm around the porch light.
Her nurse pulls open a hat box of what she had been told was old love letters kept by an old woman who used to be beautiful and cruel and sad who is now just tired and very, very old
But there's not letters in the box.
Just a dried construction paper crafted flower with 'MAMA' inscribed on it.
There's a poem underneath written in child's scrawl.
_________________________________________________________
Anyone upstairs can hear them. He wonders if that's the point. Mostly it's the off and on bang of the headboard every so often and sometimes it's the wet echoing slap of skin and very rarely there's a moan or a gasp.
He drains his third glass of a supermarket red.
It’s an awful fruity wine that tastes as sticky as it looks. He'll have a sour stomach by the end of the night.
Pat sits across the kitchen island not speaking to him again. Sometimes even his stony silences are better than his absences.
"Were we ever like that? I can't remember."
Pat smiles because he knows he's drunk.
But he obligingly answers all the same.
"Louder."
"I saw that old bitch today."
"Thank god she can't walk anymore."
"Small favors."
"Do you think she really forgave him?"
"Hating someone for a long time makes you tired, Pat."
There's a hand lying open on the counter. A parlay of sorts he supposes. He curls his fingers around the stemware and pours another glass instead.
_________________________________________________________
He's been able to see them since he was born.
Now he sits on the back stoop with his economics textbook or whatever book they're reading that semester in British literature.
Sometimes he isn’t alone on stoop. If his mother’s particularly edgy he gives her a Xanax cocktail and smokes cigarettes with her nurse.
She does her paperwork while he tries to keep track of who's fucking who and who's killing who next door.
Sometimes he sees a woman who he thinks he’s seen before but can't place. Like a dream of a mother he may have had once.
He sees a boy who could be his brother and a small fragile girl kiss in shade of the house during the blue dusk of early evening.
He wonders what his mother’s pretty nurse would say if he offered to show her the house, he thinks she’d probably take the gore in stride because she has enough gruesome stories to share about her other job at the hospital to write a book, to keep him enthusiastically rapt with the way her mouth forms words laypersons would have to look up.
He wonders what would happen if she hit her head on the rocks on the other side of the property line.
He wonders what her hair would look like with blood in it.
She's too pretty to get old anyway.
He thinks he may be in love and it'd be awful to fall out of it just because one day her face and body would sag.
But it doesn't have to.
_________________________________________________________
FIC PROMPT
Preferred Character: Ben/Hayden, Chad/Patrick, Constance/Larry, Ben/Tate
Squicks/Character Pairings You Do Not Want: I am honestly game for anything that isn't femme. If my pairings don't jump start your bunny, please feel free to write me another pairing-just please no femme. I like rough sex (with zero squicks) just as much as I like the warm and fuzzy.
Possible Scenarios/Themes/Lines to incorporate: If you close your eyes real tight and forget real hard, sometimes you almost don't remember you're not alive.
Preferred Rating: Any
Strictly Canon, AU, Doesn’t Matter: Doesn't Matter
**Mystery Author - Please remember that if you're going to reply to reviews/comments - please do so without logging in and revealing yourself. Anon comments are allowed.