#(AND ALSO IF MY VOICE SOUNDS HOARSE. AND MY CONSISTENT RAMBLING.)

[dekus-afro-pic]

Bright Blue Butterfly

Tamaki Amajiki x Reader

Warnings ⚠️:: This Fic includes blood, fighting, crying, death(kinda), descriptions of depression and eating disorders, profanity. ALSO BNHA SPOILERS

Summary :: You were apart of U.A’s Fabulous 4, which was originally the Big Three. You had gotten close to Mirio and Tamaki when the three of you were in primary school. You had even interned under Fatgum. When the villains and heroes were battling, you had gotten separated from your team. No words from your Suneater or Fatgum left you in a depressive state.

Genre- Angst to Fluff

You and various other heroes were fighting for hours. Hours that felt like days, without knowing who had died or who were still fighting for their life. You were split up from Fatgum and Tamaki during Gigantomachia’s “fun run” and found yourself assisting Deku, Bakugo, and Todoroki in their battle with Shigaraki.

That was until Dabi decided to reveal that he was also a Todoroki. Shoto stood in shock while the villain twirled and traumatized him more. Your heart broke at the sight of tears streaming down Shoto’s eyes for you have grown close to the youngest Todoroki and viewed him as a little brother. You tried using your quirk to pull the first year out of the way but blue flames burnt your tentacle-like wings.

You were giving it your all. Trying to stay alive for him. Your sun eater. Your sweet precious Tama. You, Tamaki, and Mirio were childhood friends. After Mirio lost his quirk the two of you promised to never let your heart stop beating while fighting and you were determined to keep that promise.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Bakugo plummeting to the ground. You dodged another wave of blue flames as your legs pushed to catch the falling boy. But Tenya was there right on time.

“TENYA GET HIM OUT OF HERE” You yelled at the boy.

“HEY GUYS. HEARD YOU COULD USE SOME HELP” You heard Nejire’s voice call out.

Before you could warn her about Dabi’s flames, fabric strings wrapped around the gigantic monster.

“Sorry I’m running fashionably late” Best Jeanist announced.

Deku and Shigaraki were still out cold as the fight went on. Nejire fought against Dabi’s flames while you and Best Jeanist tried to capture Gigantomachia.

“This is one big bitch” you sigh tiredly.

“That’s a nono word Y/n-Chan,” Mirio said, erupting from the ground.

“LEMILLION” you cry “YOUR BACK IN ACTION”

With the extra help, you guys apprehended Mr. Compress and other villains. Nejire’s and your body were burnt in various places, Deku’s limbs were hanging by a thread, Shoto had new-formed scars. Mentally and physically.

You were hospitalized for 2 weeks. Half of your left-wing was gone but to your advantage the doctors said it’ll grow back. Mirio came to visit every other day. You had been roommates with Nejire before she was discharged and put on bed rest. Even Shoto came to visit you every day, although his visits consisted of him crying into your chest as you comforted him. But no sign of Tamaki or Fatgum.

You’d watch the news every day to see any new updates to the fatalities list. But there their names were, bright as day, on the still missing list.

Once you were able to leave, you ran to the last place you saw them. The forest was still wrapped in yellow police tape. Scenes from the horrendous fight flashed through your head. Still, in your hospital gown, you duck under the yellow plastic and search for any clue or any pieces of them you could find.

You climbed through trees, looked through ash piles, under rocks, EVERYWHERE to find ANYTHING. You threw a heavy rock at a nearby tree, screaming in frustration. You watched as Tamaki’s Signature hooded cape float from the tree and into your hands. Tears forming in your eyes as you clutch at the fabric, you scream

“DAMNIT TAMA YOU PROMISED” You sobbed into the cape “YOU PROMISED. YOU PROMISED. YOU PROMISED”

You probably shouldn’t have been screaming so loud, since villains could be creeping around the area. But you couldn’t give not one flying fuck. Your heart, your sun eater, your sunshine was gone. And you weren’t even there to say goodbye. To save him.

You punched at the tree, leaving your newly healed knuckles bloody and broken. Your chest felt heavy as you slumped down to the ground, clutching at the fabric.

You slid the cape over your head and inhaled the scent of your forever lover. It still smelled just like him.

With your remaining strength, you stand up and begin walking back to the U.A student dormitories.

Before you could reach the big wooden doors to the 3rd year dormitory, a bright blue buttery landed on the tip of your nose.

“Hello Beautiful” You hoarsely whispered. “Butterflies were always his favorite. Especially blue ones like you”

The door opened, revealing it to be Mirio. You watched as the butterfly flew away at the sudden sound and teared up once again. You turn to face Mirio, who already had tears running down his face at the sight of you in your best friend's cape.

“Mirio-Kun” you choke, falling into his arms. The blonde catches you and helps you into the building.

That was the last day anyone had seen you. You hadn’t come down to eat, to watch tv, to socialize in almost a week. Whenever Mirio brought you food in the morning, it’ll still be at your door at lunch. The only things you were capable of were crying yourself to sleep and waking up a 3 in the morning to shower.

You hadn’t even bothered to look at the news anymore. You laid in your bed wrapped in Tama’s cape surrounded by his clothes that he’d sometimes leave in your room. You were far from healing. In order for you to heal, you’d need your SunEater back.

You had woken up at 3 in the morning crying like you have been for the past couple of days. In an attempt to distract yourself, you wrap yourself in one of Tamaki’s many scarves and made your way to the kitchen. Everything in the dormitory looked normal. But you knew it could never be normal without Tamaki even being in his or your room. Your voice never came back to you due to your constant crying. So you fill-up the kettle with water and put it on the stove eye. Once the kettle was screaming, you pour the water into your cup, place your tea bag in, and watch the tea seep in.

“Y/n!” Mirio and Nejire came running towards you, engulfing you in a big hug. You placed the hot mug down before they spilled it everywhere and returned the gesture. You gave them both a confused look as they took you by the hand and rushed out of the dormitory.

You wanted to ask where they were taking you at 4 in the morning but every time you tried to talk your throat burned in return. You wanted to cry. When you looked past your friends' heads you saw they were taking g you to the hospital. Were they taking you to get mental help? Were they about to leave you here? You tried to pull out of their hold but they kept a firm grip on your wrists.

“3 visitors for Amajiki,” Mirio told the nurse behind the counter. Your movements stopped. What did he just say?

Everything started to move in slow motion. Everything was soundless. You didn’t even hear what room number the nurse had told him. All you could think about was finding Tama’s cape in the woods that day. The two let go of your wrist to open the door to his room. Your legs wouldn’t listen to your brain and move. You stood there frozen while the door remained open.

“Come on Y/n. He’s waking up” Nejire said softly, taking your hand in hers and gently pulling you through the threshold.

Mirio was the first to pull the anxious boy into a hug. He was rambling about how much he had missed his best friend. You clutched at the scarf that was wrapped around your neck as Nejire walked over to his bed.

“Y-y/n?” Tamaki’s teary eyes widened as you caressed his cheek.

“H-Hi T-Tama” You croaked. Your voice was worse than you imagined but that was the least of your worries. You placed your forehead against him, letting tears stream down both of your faces. Tamaki pulled you in closer, sobbing into your shoulder as you did the same.

“T-They told m-me t-t-that you d-didn’t make it” He choked out. You held his face in both of your hands, kissing his nose you look into his eyes.

“Shh, I’m here now Tama. We’re together now” you smile.

You hadn’t realized that your friends had left the room until you crawled into his bed, letting him wrap his arms around you.

“Y-your wing!” He exclaimed, reaching for the bandages around your back “And you’re w-wearing my s-scarf”

“Oh...yeah. One of the villains burnt some of my wing off. It’ll grow back. Just gotta give it time” you explain running your fingers along his hand. You kissed the scars covering his forearms and his hands, leaving the boy red in the face.

“I want to go home” He groaned, burrowing his face into your shoulder. “W-When I was l-laying on the ground. A b-blue butterfly landed on m-my nose. I told it to find you to let you know that I was going to be ok.”

“That’s one trained butterfly then” you joke. “One landed on my nose last week when I...found your cape”

You switched sides to be face to face with your lover and kissed at the tears that trailed down his face. “Don’t cry Tama. I’ve done enough of that for the both of us”

“I-I love you s-so much” He whispered. Looking into your eyes with his teary ones.

You lean foreword to press a kiss upon his lips. Tamaki pulled your chest against his and let his hands wonder to your hips while your hands never left his face.

“I love you too Tama”

[torntruth]

FIVE  TIMES  KISSED     »     @retornes   (  jess  +  carol  )   .

01.    It  seems  so  simple.    The  way  the  rain  falls  onto  the  grass.   There’s  something  mesmerizing  in  the  way  the  breeze  pushes  Carol’s  short  hair  out  of  her  eyes.   Just  that  one  strand  that’s  always  falling.   The  porch  steps  are  wet.   Carol’s  blue  eyes  stare  at  that  and  that  only  for  some  reason.   She’s  zoned  out,   but  there’s  peace  in  the  corner  of  her  lips.   Somehow,   the  house  where  she  found  out  she  was  Kree  and  her  father  used  to  threaten  to  hit  her  consistently  is  now  is  the  most  peaceful  place  for  her.    She  hears  Jess  call  her  name.    Carol  just  blinks,   trying  to  get  back  in  the  zone.    She  opens  her  mouth  to  call  back.   It  seems  Jess  has  already  found  her.   Head  shakes  at  the  sudden  heavy  load  suddenly  making  himself  comfortable  in  her  lap.    Daniel  just  plops  himself,   his  back  against  his  chest,   playing  with  a  toy  that  was  designed  to  look  like  an  Airforce  F-15  jet.    He’s  just  making  swooshing  noises  and  she’s  just  wrapping  her  arms  lightly  around  his  waist.     Blue  eyes  finally  come  back  to  Earth,   back  to  her  favorite  little  zone  when  they  find  green  ones.

“   Do  you  think  you  can  stay  on  Earth  long  enough  to  watch  our  son  while  I  work  out?    You  dragged  my  ass  all  the  way  out  here  for  a  weekend  getaway  and  you’re  staring  into  the  rain -   ”      Jess  tries  to  go  on  this  long,   rambly  and  playful  rant  but  Carol  just  quietly  cuts  her  off.   It  was  incredibly  soft.    Incredibly  patient -    it  really  just  shows  how  at  ease  Carol  was  in  at  the  moment. 

“   Jess.   ”     Maybe  they’re  starting  to  read  each  other’s  thoughts,   maybe  it  was  just  the  way  Carol’s  eyes  flicked  to  Jessica’s  lips.    Jess  did  as  Carol  was  wishing  and  just  simply  leaned  in,   leaving  a  lingering  kiss  on  Carol’s  lips.    Jessica’s  top  lip  even  slid  across  Carol’s  bottom  lip,   she  pulled  away  so  slowly.    It  was  probably  also  purposeful  when  Jessica’s  fingers  touched  the  top  of  Carol’s  when  she  turned  to  walk  away.    Carol’s  eyes  moved  back  to  the  swaying  blades  of  grass.   She  leans  her  lips  against  the  top  of  Daniel’s  head  and  closes  her  eyes.   A  house  doesn’t  feel  like  a  home  until  it’s  filled  with  love. 

02.     “   What  the  fuck!   ”     Came  Jessica’s  loud  and  angry  exasperation.   Carol’s  only  smiling  because  exactly  one  second  ago  her  heart  was  only  beating  faster.    One  second  ago  she  didn’t  know  if  Jessica  was  okay.   That  answered  her  question.     Carol’s  leaning  up  onto  her  elbows.   Jessica  made  an  appearance  through  the  dust  in  the  air,   assumedly  searching  for  Carol  since  she  stopped  talking  when  she  found  Carol.   Carol  can’t  really  be  caught  each  time  she  falls.    Jessica  tilts  her  head,  jaw  locking.    Especially  since  the  monster’s  power  reducing  shockwave  sent  them  both  dropping -    and  it’s  Carol  that  took  most  of  the  blow  to  lessen  Jessica’s  painful  landing.    Carol’s  smiling  still.

“   Hey,   Jess?   ”     Carol  just  asks  softly  and  Jessica’s  suddenly  shaking  her  head,   moving  closer  to  Carol. 

“   No.    Don’t.    Not  right  now.   ”     Jessica  replies  through  gritted  teeth.   She’s  still  moving  to  help  Carol  up,   hand  around  Carol’s  upper  arms.

“   Did  it  hurt -   ”     when  you  fell  from  heaven  is  the  joke  she  was  going  to  make -   but  Jessica’s  lips  hastily  covered  her  own.   Carol’s  hands  tried  to  grip  whatever  of  Jessica’s  suit  she  could  find.   Why  was  it so  tight?    Somewhere  in  the  background  Steve  was  quickly  alerting  Tony  that  they  were  fine...   and  kissing. 

03.     Carol  did  it.    The  one  thing  Jessica  hoped  beyond  all  reason  that  she  wouldn’t  do.   Now  she’s  at  Tony’s,   holding  up  random  technology  while  he  calmly  holds  up  his  hands  and  very  politely  asks  Jessica  not  to  ruin  anything.   There’s  quite  a  few  pleases  in  there.    It’s  not  that  Jessica  didn’t  think  he  would  help -    she  was  just  lighting  a  fire  under  his  fine  ass  to  get  moving  faster.    Until  she  was  on  one  of  his  ships  with  a  pilot  she  just  met  and  who’s  name  she  definitely  forgot.    Until  she  was  in  some  nurse’s  face,   threatening  this  monkey-walrus  hybrid  until  they  let  her  in  to  see  Carol.   Until  she  was  standing  over  a  bed  with  a  woman  who  barely�� looks  like  her  Carol.   Somehow,  the  stars,  the  wide  black  space  as  Carol’s  window  view  was  as  mocking  as  it  could  be.   She  didn’t  know  what  she  was  expecting,  but  she  knows  she  doesn’t  feel  a  single  thing  until  she’s  sitting  in  a  chair  next  to  Carol’s  bed.   There’s  so  many  bruises  on  Carol,  so  many  wounds -    she  did  she  think  Carol,  scar  less,   is  also  immortal?   Or  did  she  forget.

“   Hello,   ”     comes  a  voice  from  the  doorway  and  Jessica  nearly  loses  all  her  temper  again.   Angry  green  eyes  flicking  towards  the  voice  but  the  voice  only  belongs  to  a  young  alien.     “  Can  I  -  can  I  leave  these  for  Captain  Marvel?    She  saved  us  all  and  I  just  picked  these  and  really  wanted  to  give  them  to  her.   ”     Jessica  doesn’t  verbally  reply,  just  drops  her  head  and  nods.    The  young  alien  just  wanders  in,  sets  the  exotic  looking  set  of  flowers  on  the  windowsill  and  leaves. 

The  moments  tick  into  hours  before  Jessica  stands  up  again.   Carol  hasn’t  moved  a  damn  muscle.    She  should  be  fine  by  now.    Jess  presses  her  lips  against  Carol’s  bruises  forehead.   Her  eyes  shut.   That  doesn’t  hold  back  the  tear  like  she  hoped  it  would.     “   You’re  stupid,   Kirk.   I  really  think  you  are.   You  don’t  even  know  them  and  you  sacrificed  your  life  to  save  them.    Why  do  you  always  try  to  be  everyone’s  hero?   Now  I’m  in  space  for  you.   ”

04.     “   Where’s  Daniel,   Jessica?   ”     Well,   that  did  something.    Carol’s  voice  is  hoarse.    It’s  always  this  back  and  forth.    As  if  they’d  get  more  than  a  moment  as  some  normal  family.    Not  when  one  is  a  powerful  spider  with  a  messy  as  fuck  family  and  the  other  is  Boss  of  Space  who  likes  to  play  hero  enough  that  everyone  thought  she  was  dead.    Carol’s  feet  land  on  the  ground,   her  blue  eyes  staring  directly  into  Jessica’s  green.   They’re  just  staring  at  each  other.    It’s  Carol  that  looks  as  she  should -   but  she’s  just  a  ghost  of  a  presence,   at  least  to  Jessica,   who’s  in  Hydra’s  gear,   something  maniacal  in  the  curl  of  her  lips.   Fury’s  in  Carol’s  ear  piece,  mentions  she  probably  will  have  no  idea.   That  she’s  not  really  Jessica  at  the  moment.    He  doesn’t  get  to  answer  Carol’s  question  when  Jessica  does  answer  it.

“   Where  else,   Daddy,    with  Jen.   ”     Jessica’s  voice  is  surprisingly...     Jessica.   Even,   Jessica’s  playful  tone  even.     “   Not  that  it  matters  to  you.   You  were  playing  dead  as  Hydra  was  trying  to  kidnap  him.   ”     Suddenly  Fury  is  talking  fast,   Tony  chips  in  too -    they’re  saying  the  same  thing,  arguing  with  each  other.    Tony  mentions  that  he  was  right,   Fury  only  agrees -    Jessica  hasn’t  said  a  word,   only   a  shell  since  she  was  found  with  Hydra.   The  fact  she’s  speaking  is  one  thing,   the  fact  she  knows  Daniel  is  with  Jen  is  another.    They  gave  Daniel  to  Jen  after  Jessica  was  kidnapped.   She  shouldn’t  know,   unless  there’s  a  piece  of  her  that’s  been  keeping  a  close  eye  on  Daniel.

You  have  to  believe  when  SHIELD  and  The  Avengers  team  up,   whatever  they’re  doing   IS   going  to  work.

“   I  don’t  know  who  told  you  I  was  dead,   but  they  mixed  that  up  with  the  word  ‘coma,’   I’m  guessing  it’s  probably  your  new  sadistic  friends.   Hey!    Don’t  give  me  that  look.    You  know  I  would  save  you.   I  always  come  and  save  you.    Always.     I’m  sorry  it  took  so  long  this  time.   ”     Carol’s  voice  was  still  patient,   soft  even  and  it  was  working  enough  that  she  walked  closer  without  getting  zapped  this  time.    She  didn’t  even  get  punched  when  she  was  close  enough  to  kiss  Jessica.   Somebody  sighed  in  relief.   She  has  no  idea  if  it  was  herself  or  Jessica.    The  kiss  was  messy,   Jessica  bit  her  enough  that  she  bled. 

But,   Jessica  did  that. 

05.    A  house  doesn’t  feel  like  a  home  until  it’s  filled  with  love.    Daniel  is  absolutely  wriggling  in  Jennifer’s  arms.    So  much  so  that  Hulk  herself  has  to  set  the  kid  down  on  the  wet  grass.    There’s  a  puddle  in  front  of  the  porch  steps -    usually  he  jumps  in  those,   this  time  he  just  ran  around  it,    up  the  steps  and  propelled  his  small  body  so  hard  into  Jessica  that  she  had  to  take  a  step  back.   His  small  hand  grabbed  a  handful  of  her  tank  top,   her  strap  was  just  completely  wrapped  in  the  fist  of  his  hand.    His  blue  eyes  turned,   still  holding  onto  Jess  to  reach  out  for  Carol -    who  was  just  walking  out  the  door.

Carol  took  a  long  stride  to  make  it  to  the  hand  reaching  out  for  her.   She  took  his  hand  in  hers,   kissed  his  knuckles.    The  child  just  deflated,   rested  his  forehead  on  Jessica’s  shoulder  and....   sighed.   It  almost  sounded  like  in  relief.    Carol’s  other  hand  just  found  Jessica’s  hip  and  laid  there.   She  took  one  final  step  into  the  back  of  Jessica.   Her  lips  found  Jessica’s  temple.   They  rested  there. 

It  seems  so  simple. 

[shutupanakin]

Wasting Your Time ch. 6

“Wh— what?” Tommy choked out, his voice hoarse from the lack of use all day.

The man rolled his eyes, as if he didn’t just ask a completely impolite question. “I said, do you have any booze?”

Tommy sat still. He reached into his jacket pocket, his hand finding only a plastic pen. Could he stab this man with a plastic pen?

Tommy pulled said piece of plastic out, visibly holding it up. “I have a pen.” Something about the bemused look on the man's face made Tommy click it, and again, repeatedly.

click click click click click click click click—

...

or; Tommy planned on dying. He meets Wilbur instead.

first chapter here crossposted on ao3 here

Tommy was humming to The Beatles when the train arrived. He was tapping his leg to the beat with his index and middle finger. Tommy had Yellow Submarine doing loops in his head since he had heard it the morning Sam had taken him to his classes.

Tommy wasn’t alone on the platform— a man that had to be around Sam’s age was there with him, meters away from an elder woman. Not the same one from that first night. The woman who carried the ruby red purse had white hair; the woman now was simply salt and pepper colored.

When the doors clicked open, Tommy resumed his spot in the back. They both sat separately at the front, not glancing back at Tommy. Tommy resumed his tapping, this time his knuckles against the metal beneath the window.

Tommy had started his new classes yesterday. He and Sam had spent the last week working to change it, and guilt weighed down Tommy’s chest thinking about the hours Sam had racked up on the phone. He had assured Tommy that it was okay, to not worry about it.

His schedule was different now, because of the change. He had some classes tomorrow, although they were luckily not in the morning. Tommy would have hated to have to set up another day with Wilbur— that would be inconvenient, for the both of them. The nights during the weekend on the tube line were busier, it was one of the reasons why Tommy had initially chosen Tuesday.

Wilbur was also well… Wilbur . Tommy could hear his grumblings if they were to change the day. Tommy wondered the length of the monologue that he could spring from that.

The man had glanced back at Tommy, a disgruntled look on his face. Tommy and he made eye contact for a brief second before Tommy’s eyes shot down, the rhythm that he had fallen into fading.

Tommy’s cheeks burned, that was embarrassing. Tommy didn’t think he was being that loud, at least not enough to warrant such a disapproving look from a stranger.

He was just a stranger. Someone who Tommy will never have to see again , Tommy reminded himself, in a voice that almost sounded similar to Wilbur’s, so who cares?

Tommy thinks back to the woman with the red purse, and the man, and the countless strangers that Tommy had passed and received odd looks from in the past few weeks.

So who cares?

Tommy decided that he didn’t.

Tommy resumed his tapping, a smug look settling on his face. The man only turned around once in annoyance to see Tommy’s expression.

By the time the train had started slowing for Wilbur’s stop, Tommy’s tapping was accompanied by humming. Maybe after his classes tomorrow Tommy could pull the dusty keyboard out of his closet. Tommy remembered the chords, despite his recent disuse of it. Maybe Tommy could pull some sheet music from google.

Sam got home after Tommy, whether or not Tommy was picked up by Ranboo’s cousin or he had taken the bus home. Because of their conflicting schedules, Tommy could do this without obnoxiously disturbing Sam when he had UNI work.

Tommy wondered if he could convince Wilbur to bring his guitar, one of these days. Tommy remembered that he said he didn’t make music anymore, but Tommy was a consistent nagger. He was sure he could press Wilbur into it.

He never gave a reason why , Wilbur didn’t give much of a reason why he did anything.

Metallic doors slid open, and Wilbur entered. His hands were stuffed in the pockets of his coat, head tilted down. Wilbur’s round-rimmed glasses looked like they were about to fall off the bridge of his nose.

He was frowning.

Not in a disapproving way, like the one he would sometimes give Tommy.

Any thought of music, or pestering Wilbur to bring his guitar died on Tommy’s tongue.

“You okay?” Tommy asked, Wilbur taking his seat next to Tommy.

Wilbur rubbed at his temples. “Headache,” He replied.

“Oh,” Tommy said. “I’ll try to keep my Tommy-ness on the down-low for today, just for you big dubbs.”

“Do not do that,” Wilbur advised, waving him off. “I am fine, ” He emphasized. “Why does the guy upfront look like he wants to strangle you?” Wilbur asked, gesturing to the same man who had been glaring at Tommy.

Tommy snorted. “Oh, now he got annoyed by my Tommy-ness.”

“What did you do?” As an answer, Tommy started tapping on the metal beneath the window again.

“Just that, ” Tommy scoffed. “And a bit of humming. Just enough to piss him off.”

Wilbur laughed, and Tommy grinned. There it was. “That is my boy! What song was it?” “Yellow Submarine,” Wilbur groaned.

“The Beatles?”

“ What ? Are you too good for the Beatles, Will?”

“I am,” Wilbur hummed in agreement.

They stopped, a nd the man got off. Tommy flipped him off as he left.

“Well I like them, you pretentious prick ,” Tommy scowled, Wilbur laughed. “So does Sam,”

“How is he?” Wilbur asked.

“Great, actually,” Tommy answered truthfully. “Took me to my new classes yesterday.”

“How are those going?”

“Fucking— better than Architecture .” Tommy scowled. “I’m not pulling my hair out or— or getting bored? Ya know? And Filmography is just so cool man. You’re gonna go to the theatres in a few years and see my name on the big screen.”

“Tommy,”

“And— and I probably will have to take Tubbo as my plus one, ya know. Or Sam. Probably Sam—”

“Tommy—”

“Oh don’t worry big man,” Tommy waved. “I’ll get you in. Special ticket just for you! I’m the director , they can’t say no to me, ya know. And if they do I’ll—”

“ Tommy, ” Wilbur said a final time, cutting Tommy off mid ramble. His frown was back, and Tommy snapped his mouth shut. He got lost in his rambling, forgetting about Wilbur’s headache.

“Sorry,” Tommy said, his voice lowered. “I forgot about your headache, I’ll tone it down so—”

Wilbur waved his hand. “It is not that, do not worry. You are fine.”

Tommy pursed his lips. “Are you fine?”

Wilbur hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah, I am fine.”

They stopped, no one on or off.

Tommy deepened his own frown. “Are you sure? I’m not— well, you , but I’d like to think I’m pretty observant, ya know. A few years ago Tubbo broke his arm when he fell on it during football, ya know. And I knew before him that it was broken. Absolute moron, he—”

“Tommy,”

Tommy could’ve slapped himself. “Sorry.”

“Do not apologize,” Wilbur sighed, rubbing his face. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

They’ve had this conversation already, Tommy remembered. So he just swallowed, and said; “Okay.”

“I do have a question, though,” Wilbur finally said. Tommy pulled at the thread.

“Yeah?”

Wilbur sighed. Whatever the man was trying to ask, he was visibly struggling. He pinched the bridge of his nose, adjusting his glasses.

“Why did you want to kill yourself, Tommy?” Oh, directly on the nose, right to the face, Tommy thinks.

He could have worded that better, Tommy groaned internally.

“That’s a loaded question, big man,” Tommy laughed nervously. “Haven’t— haven’t we spent the last few weeks… I don’t know… going over that?”

“Refresher? If you— for my sake of mind,” Wilbur said.

“I… I guess it’s because of how shitty… everything felt, yeah? It was going so shitty with Tubbo and Ranboo, and Sam. And I was about to flunk out, and I hated it, yeah? I felt so trapped. But it’s not like that anymore? My friends listen , and Sam is trying and I know that he cares.”

Tommy didn’t add the it’s because of you, you did that , because he knew Wilbur enough that he would shut him down.

“Do you still want to?” Wilbur finally asked.

That was also a loaded question. Something in the air tonight must’ve made Wilbur feel more emo, to be asking all these questions.

Did Tommy want to?

“No.” Tommy decided, and it felt like the truth.

Wilbur was looking at him. Tommy focused on the thread. He didn’t like it when Wilbur looked at him so sadly.

They stopped again— Tommy didn’t bother looking up to see if anyone came on or exited.

“Why do you still come to see me?”

“Because you’re my friend, Will?”

Tommy looked up to see Wilbur’s expression soften.

It was a stupid question, Tommy thinks. Tommy could be well into his thirties he thinks, and he would still come to see Wilbur. He could be directing the next big blockbuster and he would still come and see Wilbur.

Wilbur did something unexpected— his arms wrapped his arms around Tommy, being pulled into a hug . It should’ve been awkward, with the angle and both of them sitting down, but it felt nice. It felt right.

“Can you promise me something?” Wilbur says.

“Mm-hm,” Tommy hums against Wilbur’s black jumper. Considering that he wore this stupid Reagan and Bush jumper every time Tommy saw him, it didn’t smell bad. It didn’t smell at all .

“Promise me that you will not jump.”

Tommy furrowed his eyebrows, he thought they were past that. “What?”

“Just promise.” Wilbur pushed.

“Okay,” Tommy says. “I won’t jump. I promise.” He pulled out of Wilbur’s arms. “Besides, can't you have you losing your only friend.”

The sound Wilbur made was between a scoff and a laugh. “Oh, you child .”

Tommy snickered. “No, no, I get it. I’m too important to lose! You would be ever so lonely .”

“I have friends, Tommy,” Wilbur said, exasperated.

“Yes,” Tommy agreed. “You have me .”

“I also have Niki , and occasionally Jack—”

“Occasionally?” Tommy asked. “You still haven’t explained why you’re banned.”

“It is not important,” Wilbur said. Their stop was coming up— maybe Tommy could ask Manifold what happened, maybe he would be more willing. “Do not theorize on it too much.”

Tommy stood up with Wilbur. He didn’t need to shake his leg awake, thankfully.

“Oh I’m theorizing big dubbs,” Tommy said, exiting the train with Wilbur.

“And what are your theories?”

Tommy blinked. “I’ve got nothing.” He admitted. “That’s the point of theorizing, Will. I’m getting there.”

“I am sure you will.”

“Do not condescend me.”

“I am not!”

“ Memememe I’m sure you will — you are. You dickhead!” Tommy pointed a finger accusingly.

“You child.” Wilbur jabbed light-heartedly.

“You suck,” Tommy grumbled.

“Love you too,” Wilbur hummed, stopping in front of Jack's store.

“ Blah blah blah ,” Tommy complained. “Love you too, whatever, you still suck.”

The “A” in Jack was still out. Tommy doubted he could afford an electrician to fix it right now.

“This is where we part?” Wilbur asked, shoving his hands deep into his coat.

“I mean,” Tommy glanced back at the door, then turned back to Wilbur. “Jack loves me. I could get him to unban you.”

Wilbur frowned, and Tommy faltered. But he schooled his expression back into one of neutrality. “I doubt that.”

“You watch,” Tommy said. “Jack will be begging to have you back as a customer.”

Wilbur smiled in defeat. “Okay, Tommy.���

“Don’t okay Tommy me,” Tommy huffed. “I’ve got this.”

Wilbur nodded encouragingly. He smiled.  “I believe in you.”

“You better,” Tommy said, giving one more look to Wilbur before entering the store, the tell-tale sound of the bell alerting Jack.

“Hi, Tommy!” Jack yawned, peeking from behind the counter.

“Hey, Jack.” Tommy greeted, reaching into the bowl of pins. “How’s the night going?”

“Just you, again,” Jack said, leaning his chin on his palm.

Tommy’s hand found a gold, crown-shaped pin. The gold was faded into a murky yellow, but Tommy placed it on the counter with his pounds anyway.

“I have something to ask you, by the way,” Tommy said, Jack, sliding away from his precious money.

Jack’s eyebrows shot up. “What is it?”

“What happened with Wilbur?” Tommy asked, thumb pointing to the door. “Because—”

“Wilbur?” Jack cut off, face falling into a deep frown. “Wilbur Soot?”

“Yeah? You know many people named Wilbur?” Tommy asked, sarcastically. It was meant to be lighthearted, but Jack looked borderline— angry. Whatever Wilbur had done must’ve really pissed him off.

“The hell are you on about, Tommy?” Jack asked, and yeah, Tommy took a step back. Jack was angry.

“Well— well I was just gonna ask you if you could, I don’t know… Un—unban him but if what—”

“Tommy.” Jack cut off.

“Yeah?” Tommy said, his hand tight on the crown pin.

“Wilbur Soot is dead.”

That was impossible, Tommy thinks, because Wilbur was right outside. Jack was a moron, Tommy was just with Wilbur. He had been with Wilbur all night.

“No, he’s not?” Tommy laughed, although this wasn’t a very funny joke.“You’re fucking with me.”

Jack shook his head, his expression falling into something less angry, and more confusion. “I’m— I’m not, Tommy.” His voice was sad, Tommy startlingly realized. “It’s been about a year now.”

“That’s not a funny joke, Jack,” Tommy warned.

“I’m not?”

Tommy’s heart dropped, because Jack was serious. Jack truly believed— but that was impossible, because Tommy was just talking to Wilbur. Unless some tragic incident happened in the last two minutes, Wilbur wasn’t dead.

“You’re lying,” Tommy said. “You’re— you’re a—” Tommy stumbled back, legs carrying him away from the counter. Jack was lying. Jack was lying. Jack was lying. Jack was a liar. Tommy was joking around with Wilbur just moments ago.

Tommy couldn’t hear whatever Jack was saying, he didn’t want to, because Jack was lying. Tommy would go outside and Wilbur would be there to ask him what pin he got

Tommy nearly fell through the door, pushing it open and slamming it shut behind him. The slam didn’t register.

“Wilbur?"

Wilbur wasn't there.

[random-contemplations]

So here’s the fanfic, I might write a pt2 if I get round to it. Also sorry the spacing is a bit shit on mobile, I promise it looks better on the desktop version!

Edit: the whole thing is up on my A03 which is random_contemplations if you want to check it out!

[thesoundofnat]

Still fixing all the cracks

ENDGAME SPOILERS AHEAD

Summary: When May reappears after the snap, it’s in front of a moving car. She survives, but needs to stay at the hospital for a while. Where else is Peter supposed to go but to stay with Pepper, Tony and Morgan?

A/N: I turned an angsty prompt from @insane-sociopath slightly less angsty by having May (and Tony!) survive. I hope you like it!

Warnings: Endgame spoilers, nightmares, hints at trauma and PTSD.

Words: 2 100

Tony had known May Parker had vanished after the first snap, and as awful as it sounded he’d been grateful for it. The pain he’d been feeling after Peter had turned to dust, disappeared right in front of him, had almost broken him. He couldn’t imagine how May would’ve felt, losing someone who was her own flesh and blood. If he was to lose Morgan now he was certain he’d go insane.

Not that his love for Peter was any less because of their lack of a blood relation. He would still kill and die for that kid.

Point was, he was grateful May hadn’t had to go through it. It hadn’t been fun.

“Mr Stark?”

Waking up at the hospital, a model of a prosthetic arm on a table across from him courtesy of Bruce, had been jarring. Partly due to the pain and the drugs, but he’d been so sure he was hallucinating Peter being back for the first couple of days that he’d hated his brain for doing that to him.

“How am I alive?” had been his first sentence. The second a demand to see Pepper and Morgan, even though Pepper had been sitting next to him, her trembling hand holding his own. Only something like this could’ve turned Tony Stark into a confused mess, Rhodey had joked, his eyes wet.

“Mr Stark?”

Tony’s body had barely been in any shape to keep his heart going. They all called him a miracle. A once in an existence type of survival.

“I did it for you, you know,” Tony had said to no one in particular, because truly it didn’t matter. It hadn’t mattered and it would never matter.

“I’m so mad at you,” Pepper had said one evening or morning or midafternoon (Tony hadn’t been keeping track). “You could’ve died.”

Tony had smiled, or at least had tried to smile. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“The worst part is that, if you hadn’t done it, you would’ve lived with that regret for the rest of your life.”

“I can’t seem to calm down, can I?”

Pepper had stroked his face. “I’m sure you’ll be calm now.”

“Mr Stark?”

“Hmm?”

Peter - the actual real life alive Peter - must’ve said his name at least three times before he’d realized. Tony focused his gaze on him; took in the tears streaming down his face. “Shit, Pete-”

“It’s nothing bad!” Peter said, sniffling, panicked, voice too loud in the quiet hospital room. “It’s just… well, Aunt May reappeared and-”

Shit, shit, shit.

“An accident and-”

How the hell could life take away the last blood relative that precious kid had?

“She’ll be out in a couple of weeks and-”

“Wait, hold on, back up.”

Apparently May had vanished into dust in the car and reappeared in front of another one, breaking several bones as Earth had welcomed her back. Typical. She’d be fine, but she was going into surgery and wouldn’t be able to leave the hospital for a while.

“I don’t know why I’m such a mess,” Peter said, still his rambly self, after everything.

Tony, only days into his new life post snap, blinked at him. It was, unfortunately, all he managed before the drugs knocked him out again.

When he woke Pepper had made a decision for all of them.

“He’s staying with us until his aunt is back on her feet,” she said. Tony didn’t protest. Why would he?

“I could just crash at Ned’s,” Peter said for the hundredth time, but Pepper shushed him. Tony could tell she’d handle teenage Morgan with no trouble.

By the time Tony got to go home, Peter had been staying there for two weeks already. May’s condition, though not entirely life threatening, had been worse than they’d thought. Peter tried to not let it show how worried he was, for some reason, but it was all but written on his face. Tony, weak and constantly exhausted, felt so helpless he nearly cried.

“I like him,” Morgan said, the two of them alone in Tony’s bedroom, just about avoiding spilling the juice of their melting popsicles onto the bed sheets.

“He’s nice, eh?”

“Very. He makes me laugh.”

“Ah, a comedian. Maybe I just never appreciated his weird gen Z humor.”

Morgan didn’t provide his to her strange remark with any response. Tony had to resist the urge to wrap her in his arms every other minute. As close as they were, he was sure she’d start getting annoyed at him eventually.

He had no idea how much she knew. How close he and the world had been to being entirely ruined. He prayed to god she had no clue, but she was smarter than any kid he’d met (and to be fair, than some adults as well).

If she knew, she hadn’t told him.

“What do you think about him staying with us?” Tony asked her, attempting to sound casual.

“I think it’s fun.”

“But do you miss it just being us?”

“A little,” she said, swallowing the last of her ice cream. “But it’s okay. I like him and he needs us. That’s what mommy said.”

“Mommy’s right, you know.”

“She says he’s like your son.”

Tony doubted Pepper had worded it like that, but he tilted his head anyway. “I care about him.”

“Why did he never come visit before?”

Crap.

“He was away, for a bit.” Tony smiled, ignoring the sudden rush of emotions. “I’m happy you finally got to meet him.”

*

“Mr Stark, you have a daughter.”

“Yes, Pete, we’ve established that.”

Morgan’s feeling toward Peter were nothing compared to Peter’s delight and utter surprise at Tony having put a child into the world (or well - Pepper). Every so often, usually after Tony and Morgan had interacted in any way, Peter would repeat these words. Tony wasn’t sure if he should be offended at the awed tone or not.

“How was it?”

“How was what?”

“When she was being born?”

“Uh, I’m pretty sure you’re asking the wrong parent here.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “I mean, how were you feeling?”

Tony shrugged. “I was a complete mess, to be honest. Crying and laughing and pacing all over the place. When I first got to see her-” He broke off, clearing his throat. “It was the best moment of my life.”

Peter’s smile could light up the whole goddamn world. “I wish I had been there.”

Tony reached for him, pulling him into a half-hug. “Me too, kid. Me too.”

“But I’m here now, and I’m gonna be the best- uh.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“What were you about to say?”

Peter had turned red. “I was gonna say big brother, but I felt like- well, I didn’t want to-”

“Of course you’re her big brother, you nerd.”

“Oh.”

Tony snorted. “Well, she did call you my son.”

“Did you correct her?”

“Nah.”

This time Peter’s beaming face was turned downward, bashful.

Tony ruffled his hair. “Come on. Let’s go make the queens of the house some dinner, shall we?”

*

The weeks of Peter’s stay had some dark moments, mostly consisting of Tony’s body not cooperating or Pepper’s heart breaking all over again if she remembered almost losing him or Tony thinking of the moment Peter turned to dust, over and over. It was sleepless nights and trips to the hospital for check ups and visits and all the while Peter feeling guilty for enjoying his stay when his aunt was alone in an empty room.

“You’re there about 90% of your days,” Tony told him. “She doesn’t expect you to do more. In fact, I think she’d kick both your ass and mine if I allowed you to sleep in those torture devices to chairs.”

Tony went to visit her without Peter at times, when he was in school. They didn’t say much because it wasn’t needed.

“I’m sorry you had to spend five years without him,” May said one day, her hand gripping Tony’s perpetually trembling one. The prosthetic one was steady.

“We fixed it,” he said, voice hoarse and slightly too quiet.

“I’m so glad you did.”

“We lost some along the way,” he added, his mind on Natasha, as it often was.

May gave his hand a squeeze. They didn’t speak again for a while.

*

Having a teenage superhero in the house meant helping them with - and forcing them to do -  homework and making them promise to not be out to late and “no, Pete, Spider-Man isn’t needed tonight.” Maybe he was being hypocritical, but at least he could laugh at each look Pepper shot him whenever he reprimanded Peter for things he’d probably done himself.

It also meant running into him when they were both wandering the house in their sleepless states, both confused, both feeling too much with no relief in sight. Tony had been surprised seeing Peter the first night, but, despite his saying he had nothing to make him feel like this really because the snap hadn’t lasted five years for him, Tony couldn’t blame him.

“I’m sure it was traumatic in ways you can’t explain,” Tony said, remembering the hysteria just before he vanished. “And to be fair, the whole goddamn battle was a mess. I’d be worried if you weren’t having trouble sleeping, as much as I wish you didn’t.”

“Does it hurt a lot?” Peter asked then, eyes on Tony’s trembling arm.

“This? Nah. It’s just my body not being as strong anymore. It’s getting better.” Tony hadn’t told any of them of the times he’d entered his lab trying to create something only for him to scream in frustration and not go back in days. His prosthetic arm was working just fine, but the rest of him, parts he’d gotten so used to using whenever he built or tinkered around, were still recovering. That was what Tony said, at least. No one had promised him his old body back. He reckoned he couldn’t really expect them to lie so awfully to him.

“I’ve never been as scared as I was when I saw you sitting there, arm practically crumbling-” Peter cut himself off. “Sorry. Jesus. You probably don’t wanna hear about that.”

“No, no, it’s okay. Talk.”

“I can’t.”

Tony understood.

Some nights, Morgan found them, blinking up at them in the light of the kitchen, confused. “Daddy?”

“Hey, pumpkin, why aren’t you in bed?”

“Why aren’t you?”

And Peter would grin, whenever the tiny little four year old would be smart with her genius father. Tony’s heart was never as full as it was in those moments.

And then, it was over. May, recovered, got to go home and bring Peter with her. They all knew it had been coming.

“You’re sad, aren’t you?” Pepper said the first night without him.

Tony nodded. “A bit. It’s silly.”

“It’s not.”

“Maybe not.”

“You can visit him this time, you know.”

Tony laughed, so loudly he must’ve startled Morgan, wherever she was in the house. “I know.”

“I’m gonna miss having him in the house,” Pepper said. “It wasn’t the same being in the Tower or the Compound. People feel so much closer here.”

“It’s because this is a normal house, which apparently is what normal people live in.”

Pepper laughed. “Domesticity suits you.”

“I try.”

“I know.”

She always did.

“How are you?” Peter asked a couple of weeks later. They hadn’t seen each other since he’d gone back home.

“Me? Doing better. How’s May?”

“She’s doing much better.”

“And how are you?”

Peter didn’t reply immediately, eyes finding the street they were walking next to. “I’m doing all right, mostly.”

“Ah.”

“No new nightmares.”

“But old ones?”

“Always the same ones.”

“I know the feeling.”

If Tony could take all of Peter’s pain and trauma, he would, but he knew that wasn’t possible, so he did the next best thing.

“Let’s grab some ice cream. I think that daughter of mine has made me addicted to that stuff.”

Peter laughed. “I miss her.”

“Well, then I think it’s about time you come visit her, hm?”

“Just say when and I’ll be there.”

“No need. You can show up whenever you want, as long as it isn’t in the middle of the night. Unless it’s an emergency, of course.”

“You say that now, but I bet you’ll raise an eyebrow at me when I walk in on your date with Pepper.”

“As if we won’t have enlisted you to babysit Morgan to begin with.”

“Happy won’t be happy. Hah, that was unintentional.”

“Happy will have to learn to share his duties.”

They were gonna be okay.

[lcvedandlcst-archived]

HEAR THE AVA ROAR!! (bark??)

[sofreddie]

The Winchester Way Part 6

Summary: Y/N learns about The Way and speaks with her father.

Characters: Reader, Kevin, Sam, Gadreel, Allen, Jo

Word Count: 2,523

Warnings: Angst, Mild Torture, Mentions of Torture, Implied Brutality, Mentions of Death/Character Death

A/N: Part 6! Fairly tame chapter. I would like to thank my Creative Collaborators, @sis-tafics and @reigningqueenofwords for all of their help and support and feedback. I would also like to thank @winsister91 and @jensensjaredsandmishaslover for listening to my ramblings and helping me sort my thoughts. Seriously, this part wouldn’t have happened without all of these people’s help and encouragement. And lastly, thank you to my followers and the TWW tags for being so patient and understanding while I tried to get my writing back on track. And as always, HEED THE WARNINGS!

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4] [Part 5]

Y/N was led into the library and introduced to Kevin. He seemed friendlier and less abrasive than the others. He sat her down at a table, away from others, and placed several papers and books on the table before them.

“So, today you’re going to learn about The Winchester Way. Our way. Can’t expect you to follow the rules if you don’t know them.” He chuckled, more to himself. “Most people who come here know about the Way or hunting in some fashion. You’re the first I’ve worked with who was completely oblivious.” He sighed, reaching for a paper before him and handing it to Y/N.

“Is this a letter?” She asked, looking over the typed document. Kevin nodded in response.

“Known as ‘The Winchester Way’, the Winchester Doctrina was established in 1822 by Elijah Winchester. After hunting the supernatural for twenty years, he had established a following of younger hunters who he had trained in the art of hunting. Before his passing, he created the Winchester Doctrina, a letter to his son all about his beliefs and practices. His son, Ezra Winchester, was to take over leadership of the followers. The select few, who had been with Elijah since the start, referred to themselves as the Winchester Elite. The Elite - six altogether - consisted of the hunters and their families: The Singers, The Harvelles, The Campbells, The Fitzgeralds, The Trans,” he paused, smirking at her before continuing, “and The Y/L/N. These six families, under the leadership of the Winchesters, upheld and expanded upon the Winchester Doctrina, forming what was eventually known as The Winchester Way.”

Y/N’s eyes widened as she glanced at the paper in her hands. “The Y/L/N?” She whispered to herself.

“Yes. You’re of one of the founding families. It’s a shame you didn’t grow up in the life. You’re considered legendary by default.” Kevin waited for Y/N to meet his gaze once more. “Your father was a great hunter, one of the best. He and John fought together for many years.”

Y/N nodded numbly in response. She wasn’t sure what to think of all of this. After what she had endured so far, she understood why her father would try to protect her. But she also didn’t understand, if it was so important, and their family so entwined, how could he keep it from her? She looked back to the letter in her hands.

“Read the letter, then we’ll talk.” Kevin sighed, grabbing a book and leaning back in his chair to read it. Y/N stared at him a moment, then back to the letter, letting out a big sigh before reading.

My Son,

You have grown up understanding the shadowy world in which we live. For you, it is normalcy, it is the way things are. However, most people are not accustomed to this and never will be. When I first came into this world of the paranormal, I was overwhelmed. It was against all that I had known and learned within my life. But I was fortunate enough to be taught and guided, allowing me to fight and to teach others.

I did not understand why so many people went it alone. They fought alone, lived alone, and died alone. Throughout history, any effort that has been brought to fruition consisted of several people, banded together for a single cause and purpose. Why should our world be any different? There were others who agreed with me and followed my teachings. I never intended to be a leader. Merely pass on my teachings and help us all to bind together against the forces of the paranormal.

What has come to be is more than I ever anticipated or dreamed. We are an order. We are a united front against evil. Hunting things and saving people, that is our motto, our way. And as my life comes to a close, I turn to you, my dearest Ezra, to continue what has been built.

Save people, teach them our ways, guide them to be the strongest and most efficient force that can be. Grow the ranks, and eradicate the evils of this world. The Elite families have sworn their continued support to the cause, their children will continue the fight. Find other hunters and bring them into our family. Surely Heaven will await us all in the end.

With Love and Blessings,

Elijah Winchester

Y/N read and re-read the letter several times. She didn’t understand. How could this letter of a dying man, a man with a mission to protect the world from the darkness within it, become a mantra for whatever was happening within these walls? Surely, this was not what he had envisioned? She turned to Kevin, a million questions swimming in her mind.

“You should speak to your father.” Kevin offered, rising from his seat. “He will face the Gauntlet soon, and you are entitled to visit with him before then.” Kevin took the letter from Y/N before placing a large book before her. She read the title and glanced at Kevin in confusion. “It’s like an introduction to the supernatural,” He shrugged, before walking away. Y/N’s focus was on the book before her as she opened it up, curious to what lay within.

Y/N suddenly felt hands upon her shoulders and a breath at her ear, causing her to jump reflexively. “Study well. You will be quizzed.” She turned her head to see Sam grinning at her, a gleam in his eye. He glanced at her lips, licking his own, before squeezing her shoulders and walking away. Y/N wasn’t sure what made her more uncomfortable. The fact that she hadn’t known he was there. Or that she was quickly realizing his predatory desire for her.

Later that evening, Y/N was escorted by Jo to the dungeon to see her father. Upon reaching the base of the steps, Jo provided her directions to find a man named Gadreel, who managed most activity in the Dungeon. Jo hastily took off back up the steps, leaving a confused Y/N to gaze around and try to remember the route that she was provided.

A few turns found Y/N at the end of a long hallway, lots of voices and sounds of various activities floated around and bounced off the walls, filling her with curiosity and fear. She shut her eyes and took a deep breath to calm her nerves, before taking the first few steps forward.

The first door she came to on her right was open. She gazed inside, gasping at the sight. What appeared to be a large werewolf was suspended, wrists shackled apart in the air, feet chained to the floor. The creature was snarling and howling. A man and a woman worked around the beast, the woman handing items to the man who used them on the beast. The werewolf would snarl or howl in anger or pain. The woman would take notes on her clipboard and provide another item to the man, continuing his efforts. Y/N covered her mouth with her hand to stifle her gasp as she hurried past the door. The next few rooms seemed to be similar, various creatures - some she had heard of, some she could never have imagined - being held, tested, observed.

She made it down the hall and turned right, knowing she should find this Gadreel person somewhere nearby. All the doors in this hallway were closed, small windows with bars adorning their surfaces. She peered into a few, seeing what looked like normal people being held. Were these all prisoners? As she reached midway down the hall, a tall man with chiseled features and short blonde hair came down the opposite end of the hallway. His eyes immediately found hers and he stopped in front of one of the doors. Y/N stopped a few feet from him.

“You must be Y/N.” He spoke, his tone cold and formal. “I am Gadreel. Your father is in here.” He gestured to the door on her left. Her eyes drifted to the door, hurt filling her at the thought of what he must be enduring inside. He continued to speak as he pulled keys from his pocket to unlock the door. “You have fifteen minutes. I’ll lock the door behind you. Once your time is up, I’ll let you out.” He pulled the door open wide, gesturing for her to enter. She glanced into the darkness of the cell and back to Gadreel before nodding and cautiously making her way inside.

Before her eyes could adjust to the dim lighting, the heavy metal door slammed shut behind her, causing her to jump. The sound of the lock sliding into place sent shivers down her spine.

“Dad?” Y/N whispered cautiously to the darkness, taking a careful step forward as she searched the silhouettes of the room.

“Y/N/N?” A hoarse and weak male voice returned. She recognized it as her father’s, but the brokenness of his tone unnerved her. She watched as a shuffling from the corner approached her. As the figure drew closer, the light from the barred window cast an eerie glow across his face. Enough for her to see it was him, but to also see he had endured a harsh beating. She gasped at the sight, rushing into his arms.

“Dad? What did they do to you?” Y/N ushered him to the dirty cot in the corner, urging him to sit as she took a seat beside him.

“I’ll be fine. Nothing worse than anything I’ve endured before.” He chuckled softly, more to himself.

“What is going on here? What is all of this?” She pleaded, desperate for information. Allen sighed heavily.

“I never wanted this for you, any of it. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I thought that your mother and I could leave, could have a normal life, to give you a normal life.” Y/N held his hand in her own, waiting for him to continue. “There’s a whole ‘nother world out there, Sweetheart. Monsters are real. Nightmares are real. And these people, people like who I used to be, live their lives fighting off and killing those monsters. We save people...or at least, we did.” His voice died off in sadness. He sniffed before sitting up straighter, taking a deep breath.

“As one of the Elite families, I grew up in this life. I was proud of our legacy and the work we did. We saved people, we saved the world. It wasn’t glamorous and it was all virtually unknown, but it meant something. It was important.” He stood from the cot and began an absentminded pacing of the room as he spoke.

“John and I grew up together. We hunted together. We were best friends. I remember how excited I was for him when he took over leadership from his father. John was a good man and was bound to be an even better leader. He understood that a gray area exists sometimes and that rules and traditions needed to evolve with the times. I would have followed that man anywhere!”

“What happened then? Why did you leave?” Y/N asked, suddenly feeling as though everything she ever knew was a lie.

“Because of Mary.” Allen stated, meeting his daughter’s gaze for the first time. “We were on a hunt, John, Mary, and I. It was a nest of vampires, nothing we couldn’t handle. We split up and John protested, but Mary insisted. After we cleared out the nest, we met back up to find one last vampire had Mary hostage. Knowing he was going to die regardless, he ripped out Mary’s throat before our eyes, before we could do anything to stop him.”

“But Mary...she’s alive…”

Allen nodded. “John couldn’t take the grief of her death. He couldn’t handle leadership and raising his sons without Mary by his side. So he made a deal. Not just any deal. A long term deal involving a ‘truce’ and ‘partnership’ with the King of Hell, Crowley. In exchange, Crowley brought Mary back. Neither her nor John have been the same since. A darkness crept into John after her loss. Though he was relieved to have her back, it was too late to save himself. He got worse after that. Shut down any threats or questioning to his leadership, made his own rules, and started living life more and more on the dark side. I couldn’t stand to watch what he’d become and what was happening to The Way. Knowing you were on the way, I made the decision to leave, to disappear. I didn’t want that for you, for our family. It wasn’t right. And I never looked back.”

Y/N sat in silence, absorbing all she had heard, trying to make sense of it all. After several long minutes of silence, she stood, her hands balled in fists at her side.

“Do you know what they did to me?” She growled. “Do you know what I had to endure? I had no idea what was happening! I didn’t know who these people were, that this world even existed! And I’ve been thrust into things I couldn’t even imagine! I wasn’t prepared!”

Allen rushed to his daughter, attempting to embrace her and calm her, but Y/N pushed him away.

“No!” She shouted. “I’ve learned of The Way. Of what it is, what it was supposed to be. Our family are Elites. We have a responsibility as much as the others to ensure The Way is followed and continues.”

“It changed!” Allen pleaded. “John changed!”

“And YOU had a responsibility to stand up for what’s right! To stand up for The Way! But you didn’t. You ran and now...now look what it’s become!”

“There’s no changing it back. John is too far gone. Soon, Dean will take over and he’s worse than his father! There is no coming back from that!”

“You didn’t even try.” Y/N whispered. “I am so unprepared because you hid me from this. You never told me. And now I have to find my way through this alone and unarmed.”

“Y/N/N…”

“No.” She wiped the tears from her eyes as she marched to the door.

“I go to the Gauntlet soon.” Allen called after her.

Y/N slowly turned to face him once more. “The Gauntlet?” She barely whispered. Allen nodded.

“It’s a Hunter and Monster battle arena. A Hunter’s version of gladiators, I suppose.” He shrugged. “I might not make it out.”

“And if you do?”

“If I do, I’ll be forgiven. But only if I rejoin The Way.”

“Will you?” Y/N demanded. Allen stayed silent, his eyes falling to his feet. Y/N shook her head, her disappointment and hurt overwhelming her. “Goodbye, Daddy.” She whispered, before knocking on the door. Gadreel opened the door and let her out, closing it and locking it swiftly behind her. Allen stared at the door, his life flashing through his mind.

“Goodbye, Y/N/N.”

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[kenzieam]

Amity Confidential - Chapter 2 (Eric X OC)

Rating: M (swearing/smut/anger/other adult themes :p) **Possible Trigger Warnings**

Genre: Drama/Humour/Angst

Thanks everyone for the re-blogs and support!!! IT IS SO AWESOME!!!

@emmysrandomthoughts @beautifulramblingbrains @iammarylastar @tigpooh67 @bookwarm85 @frecklefaceb @mom2reesie @elaacreditava @badassbaker @captstefanbrandt @jaihardy @treeleaf @pathybo @beltz2016 @lilu46 @equalstrashflavoredtrash @girlwith100names @gaia25 @readsalot73 @bookgirlthings @slayer0507 @stone-met @lostinthebeans @lauraaan182 @queenara4 @letmagichappen @girlslovestorys @tonyt1995 @sterek-foreverandever @lacy-love @littlesouthernrebel @fuckthatfeeling @micolegg @sparklemichele @vitaevandal @shaunarcanine @buried-in-books

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A new standalone story for Fox and Eric - NO, NOT THE PWP I WAS ASKING ABOUT EARLIER…..THAT’S IN THE WORKS STILL - Thank you everyone for indulging me and my ramblings, you are my lovelies!

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Fox decided to take a nap; when she'd messaged Blaze about not being home today or tomorrow he'd been understandably upset. They hadn't seen each other in over two weeks; and once he found out that she was attending the annual Amity Summer Love Festival with none other than Eric Coulter, he'd been even more upset, keeping her on the line for hours, demanding, then pleading, then back to demanding that she withdraw. Finally, he'd decided to petition Max about it, but whatever he'd said hadn't swayed the leader, who'd sent Fox a sleepy message sometime in the early morning (after Blaze had kept him up for who knows how long) that the trip was still on. Blaze hadn't answered any messages since. Fox sighed in frustration, punching her pillow; why the hell was Blaze so upset? She'd been working with Eric the whole time she'd been with Blaze, first as initiates together, then lovers, then a couple. He'd never shown this level of jealousy before and frankly, Fox was pissed. She'd never given him any reason to doubt her love for him, had never been anything but professional with Eric, even their friendship was formal and professional compared to her other relationships with her other friends and co-workers; they never met for drinks in the Pit, never met up at faction parties, the only standing engagement they'd ever had was eating lunch at the same table, or in each other's offices, if they couldn't get away. Fox had no feelings for Eric beyond a co-worker and unconventional friend.

"Easy on the pillow, what it'd ever do to you sugar?" Eric drawled from the living room, he'd plopped on the couch immediately after returning from parking the truck.

Fox scrambled out of bed, finally finding an outlet for this frustration. Reaching the doorframe she yanked the door open and snarled. "Fuck off Coulter!"

Eric smirked, still looking at his tablet. He glanced up to retort and did a double-take, his eyes widening. Fox frowned at his expression, she'd told him to fuck off before, daily in fact, then she remembered what she was wearing.

Fox had gone to lay down in a silky camisole and pair of boyshorts with 'lucky you' printed on the hip. She hadn't even considered her state of undress when flying towards the door to yell at him, and to make matters worse, the cabin was slightly chilly, and Fox felt her nipples harden, poking through the silky white fabric. Shit. Eric's eye's darkened and his lips parted, but Fox scrambled back into the bedroom, slamming the door shut before she saw anymore. Shit, fuck, SHIT! If Blaze heard about this.......even more upset than before Fox flopped back onto her bed and pulled the covers over her head.

Sleep finally claimed her, but blurry images haunted her, a man hovering above her, his touch gentle, turning her on more than she could remember Blaze's ever doing. Her eyes snapped open, but nobody was there. Fucking Amity, there was something in the air here. ______________________________________________________________________________________________________

Fox didn't speak to or see Eric until it was time to leave for the festival. Fox had taken a good portion of Max's clothing allowance and found a dress that perfectly personified a Dauntless at an Amity love festival. The black, fitted, lace-up corset top hugged and accentuated her curves and breasts and the mid-thigh length skirt, although sheer, was multi-layered enough to just give hints of what lay beneath. It was both ethereal and warrior-princess, dangerous and beautiful; and Fox regretted buying it as soon as she saw the flash in Eric's eyes as she left the bedroom. He was dressed in his standard tight black jeans and a black button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up to show his tattooed forearms. Fox swallowed and walked towards him, trying to minimize the natural sway of her hips, accentuated by the high wedge boots she was wearing. Eric watched her like a hawk and as she got closer, he swallowed visibly. Fox opened her mouth to speak, to apologize for earlier for her near nakedness, to ask that things not get weird between them, but Eric beat her to it.

"You look beautiful Fox, Blaze is a lucky man." His voice was hoarse and as he turned, he pushed the front door open unnecessarily hard.

The festival was beautiful and indulgent. Amity was celebrating love and life and all that shit. Mostly it consisted of drinking and dancing, broken apart by rituals aimed at continuing Amity's continued good fortune and healthy relationship with earth. Eric and Fox had been placed at a table with two other couples, one from Amity, one from Candor. Eric was quiet through most of the dinner, which wasn't unusual, what he lacked in social skills he made up for with a complete lack of fucks given, but he was also tense, and drank more wine than usual. Fox eyed him carefully, he was completely avoiding the bread and it's spike of peace serum, which relieved her; god only knows what he'd be like tonight with no inhibitions, he knew how to handle his liquor at least. She too avoided the bread, although she had a high tolerance for peace serum, having grown up on the stuff, she didn't want any problems tonight. The wine was good, and Fox quickly found herself pleasantly buzzed. She too could handle her drink, and her sudden fuzziness puzzled her a moment, what the fuck is in this wine? before the thought left her. Everyone in fact, seemed to be lightening up around them, either from the strong wine or too much bread and it quickly became overwhelming for Fox. As soon as the second 'summer love worship dance' was over, Fox stood and excused herself, stumbling her way back to the cabin.

She found the cabin easily, despite the in and out double-vision she was experiencing and shut the door behind her. Kicking off her boots with a relieved groan, she reached behind her to pull down her zipper. Strong hands covered hers and warm breath tickled her throat. Turning sharply, the motion making her waver on her feet, Fox came face to face with Eric. He was leaning over her, an intent look on his face. His hand slowly traced along her collarbone and he inhaled sharply, his eyes meeting hers, they were dark, the pupils blown.

"Eric, what-" Fox took a step back but Eric gripped her wrist, pulling her back towards him. Her head swam, unfamiliar feelings coursing through her, Eric's touch was hot and exciting and wrong! No! This is wrong! Fox pulled away, stumbling and began to stammer.

"No....Eric, this is wrong, I'm engaged and...." she trailed off, heat rushing through her, a strange sense of relaxation; dimly it registered in her mind that the last time she'd felt like this she'd overdosed on peace serum and confusion filled her brain. How? I didn't touch the bread. Eric staggered slightly as he advanced towards her and Fox realized that whatever was affecting her was affecting him too. There was more, beyond the peace; Fox was feeling compelled to talk, to spill her emotions, to tell Eric something, anything. She wasn't even sure what was going to come out of her mouth when she opened it. What the FUCK did they give us??! Eric's hand touched her face and it felt so fucking good, tingles raced through her skin. Fox met his eyes, gasping at the emotions reflected there.

"Fox," Eric whispered, his voice was slightly slurred, but it was still strong and deep, still Eric. "I can't let you marry that guy."

"W-what?"

Eric leaned forwards, his lips almost touching Fox's; he gave her a second to pull back and goddammit, she didn't. Their lips touched and a shock-wave shot through Fox, her heart jumping to startled life in her chest. A deep rumbling groan vibrated through Eric and Fox found herself tearing at his shirt, her lips pressing harder against his, their tongues battling back and forth. Reaching down, Eric gripped Fox's thighs and lifted her to straddle his hips. Their lips stayed connected, small desperate sounds of need escaping them, mouths crushed together with bruising force. Eric walked towards the his bedroom, dropping Fox onto the mattress and crawling above her, hands trailing heat along her skin. Leaving her lips, Eric moved to her throat, teeth nipping, tongue lessening the sting and Fox arched beneath him. ______________________________________________________________________________________________________

Fox cracked an eyelid open, squeezed it quickly shut again. She knew a hangover when she felt one, and the light blazing through the window directly into her eye was not helping. Fox turned her head, burrowing her face back into her pillow then froze. Pillows don't breathe, pillows don’t smell like musk and masculine spice and pillows aren’t warm. Cautiously, Fox raised her head, squinting.

Oh....fuck.

Eric lay beneath Fox, the 'pillow' had been his chest; one arm encircled Fox and rested on her lower back. One of Fox's legs was shoved between Eric's thighs, her hips pressed shamelessly against his. As her senses slowly returned Fox realized that, in addition to a stickiness and pleasant ache between her legs, there was also....something pressing against her lower abdomen.

Oh shit.....oh fuck.

Fox began to try and pull slowly away, tentatively leaning back and Eric sighed, reacting sleepily. His arm tightened around Fox and pulled her back closer to his body. Turning his head he buried his face against Fox's hair and made a happy humming contented sound, like a massive cat. His free hand fell to her hip and tugged her closer to him, to his erection, his hips unconsciously pushing against hers.

"Baby-" he mumbled, still deeply asleep, exhaling heavily and Fox swore in her head again.

Shit, fuck, shit! Goddammit LaRue!

Horror and shame washed through her, they'd had sex last night, no doubt, and more than once based on the mess she could feel between her thighs. They obviously hadn't used a condom either, shit. Fox hadn't had time to get to the infirmary for her birth control shot this week either, fuck, shit, fuck!!

Trying again, Fox began to slowly extricate herself from the cage of Eric's body. He hummed again in sleepy protest, but Fox was able to escape this time and, snagging her dress and underwear off the floor she wobbled to her bedroom, grabbed a handful of clothes and ducked into the bathroom. Turning on the shower she smacked her forehead angrily and glared at herself in the mirror.

Oh......damn.

Fox's throat was marked by dark bruises and hickeys, there were even a few visible teeth marks. Shit, Eric liked to mark his women, you are not his woman dammit!, and it was always easy to spot his newest girlfriend down in the Pit, they were either wearing their collars flipped up or their hair down. Slamming the heels of her hands into her eyes Fox turned and stumbled into the shower. She scrubbed desperately at her skin, trying to remove the smell, the feel of Eric on her, but it was no use. His scent, the feel of his touch were imprinted in her mind, burned into her brain. Peace serum, or whatever the fuck they’d be hit with last night took away your inhibitions, bought all your hidden desires to the surface; but it left your memories intact. Fox nearly bent double as the memory of last night hit her.

Leaving her lips, Eric moved to her throat, teeth nipping, tongue lessening the sting and Fox arched beneath him.

“Fuck Fox, I’ve wanted you,” Eric’s lips trailed more fire down to Fox’s breast, latching onto a nipple, “for so fucking long baby.”

Desire threatened to overwhelm Fox, she’d never felt so consumed by passion before. Her hands clawed the back of Eric’s head, pulling him back up to her lips. He moaned against her mouth, grinding his lips to hers, their bodies pressing tight together, legs tangling. Eric hooked his fingers in Fox’s panties and yanked them down, pulling them off her legs and throwing them carelessly away. Jerking impatiently at his jeans he pushed them down his hips then grabbed Fox’s thighs, pulling her close, lining up between her legs.

He filled her with one slow, relentless thrust, groaning as her body stretched to accommodate him. Fox moaned, arching against Eric’s chest, he was larger than Blaze, filling her deliciously full. Eric panted into Fox’s throat, the feel of her sheathed around him threatening to send him plunging over the edge; he’d never felt this way while inside a woman before, his muscles trembled, his body hummed, alive with sensations.

Blaze, Fox’s thoughts murmured, what about Blaze?

Her thoughts of Blaze disappeared as Eric began to thrust, pulling almost completely out before gliding back deep inside. A wave of ecstasy flowed over her, heat shooting through her limbs and Fox bit back a whimper. Her hands clawed at Eric’s back, making him hiss against her skin, sucking roughly at the delicate patch beneath her ear. A shiver ran through Fox’s whole body, making Eric hum against her throat in appreciation. He arched his spine, thrusting deeply, grunting softly in Fox’s ear, mumbling curses as his hands and lips trailed delicious heat across her body. As his hand traced down her ribcage to her thigh he pulled it higher on his hip, pushing deeper inside Fox and groaning into her hair.

“Fuck baby-” he panted, trailing his nose along her cheek to press against her lips again, their tongues sliding against each other. He swallowed Fox’s whimper as he brushed her womb, gliding deeper with each thrust.

“Eric, fuck I’m-”

Fox shook her head sharply, scattering the molten memory. Her body tingled and her pulse raced. Mere moments later, both she and Eric had orgasmed together, Eric groaning into her throat, his body shuddering with release, Fox moaning beneath him, pressing her face to his straining shoulder.

Shit, fuck, shit. Fox angrily scrubbed at her body, shampoo rinsing from her hair and down her back. Goddammit. Fox stepped out of the shower, rubbing her skin roughly with a towel. She dressed quickly, stuffing her toiletries and dirty clothes into her duffel. She was heading straight to the truck, she wasn’t ready to talk to Eric yet, she wasn’t even ready to look him in the eye yet. Throwing the door open Fox hurried out, intending to stab her feet into her boots and dash out of the cabin, but she froze. Eric stood in his bedroom doorway, wearing only black jeans low on his hips. His arms were crossed over his chest. He gazed at her, a curious mix of concern and confidence in his eyes.

“Fox-”

“Save it Coulter. I can’t do this right now.” Fox resumed her rush, bee lining for her boots. Eric reached out and snagged her elbow.

“Fox, please-”

Fox yanked her arm savagely away and held out her hand, palm out, towards him, “don’t!” she snapped. Bending, she snatched her boots and all but ran from the cabin.

Fox sprinted across the ground, slowing only long enough to pull on her boots before continuing to the truck. Yanking the passenger door open she climbed in, falling into the seat with a groan. Dropping her duffel she stabbed her hands through her hair. Fuck, not my finest moment.

Twenty minutes later the driver’s door opened and Eric climbed in, tossing his bag into the back. He stared out the windshield for a moment, his hands resting on the steering wheel before turning his head, his expression far more concerned and far less confident than it had been in the bedroom doorway.

“Fox-”

“GODDAMMIT ERIC! I can’t do this right now! Now for fuck’s sake take us home or I swear I’ll walk!” Fox clawed at the door handle.

“Okay! Fuck!” Eric barked, turning back. Starting the truck he glared daggers straight ahead, roughly shifting gears, the truck jolting into motion. Fox stared miserably out the passenger window, willing the truck to move faster.

[hamilkilo]

An Introductory to Good Ol' Johnny A

Prompt: This was the first fanfic for Hamilton I ever wrote, but it was written in first person. I went back and edited it to a standard imagine format. It’s going to be a series, most likely Poly!Hamilsquad X Reader, and it’s going to be a loosely based Moulin Rouge AU. Pairing: This chapter is just Lafayette X Reader, but the series is Poly!Hamilsquad TW: written more eloquently like a book instead of an imagine or a one shot, so it’s not in depth??? A/N: here’s another series. I hope y'all enjoy it! If you want me to tag something, please let me know! I want you to feel safe when reading my work! Word Count: 1692 Your Sons of Liberty Chapter 1

Everything starts out small and insignificant. Atoms are infinite and meaningless until they combine and interact to form the most complicated structures and organisms known to man. We cannot even begin to comprehend their complexity. These glorious combinations of stardust and galactic energy are byproducts of something smaller than small. Something meaningless. The best, most beautiful things come from nothing.

I guess I could say that the meaningless act that started it all was when your parents decided to bareback it into the night, and you were mistakenly (and regrettably) conceived. This began your ever so casual, uneventful, dreadfully boring existence. Your life consisted of mistake built after consecutive mistake; atoms on top of atoms until it formed a huge, complex mistake known as yourself. However, by some act of God, you miraculously managed to make it through high school. It took a lot of tears, lies, and countless bullshitted assignments, but you made it. Considering you had major authority issues and crippling depression, your accomplishment still boggles my mind. The most surprising part of it all, however, was the fact that you somehow had managed to get yourself into college. All of your mistakes had snowballed on a slippery slope into this. So there you were, standing at the gates of this new Mt Bullshit, and you were ready to climb it. You had your grappling hook of manipulative tears, your safety harness of reliable mental illness to fall back on, and the determination of a scorned liberal. You could do this. On the downside, in the literal sense of what you had on your person was a pencil and a notepad shaped like a paw print. You were not prepared for college. This, to me, was a major accomplishment considering that you had also remembered to put pants on this morning. When you first went into the enormous lecture room of the reasonably priced, ninety-four percent acceptance rate university, you were overwhelmed. You weren’t used to classes this large. The room was already considerably full with a full roar of chatter. You also noticed how out of place you were next to the kids who were actually prepared for class. Some even had text books and laptops. Joke’s on them; you have depression! 

You scanned the room for an open chair in a quiet corner, and to your orgasmic delight, there was an empty row in the back, shadowed out by the awkward angles of the lecture hall. You quickly made your way to my safe haven and sat down. You pulled out your phone and slid your headphones in, glad that you remembered the items that actually mattered. You began to listen to your song of the week, your most recent obsession, “Cecelia and the Satellite.” You stared at your paw print notepad you had gotten on clearance and smiled to yourself. You loved cats so much. Just then, the bell rang above the background noise of the song, and you pulled your headphones out. You saw, although you had to squint to make it out, a stout, old man make his way across the room before he stood in front of his chalk board. This uni was so outdated. Glad to see they used the tuition reasonably. “Good morning, whipper snappers! I’m your history professor, Dr. Adams. Only Dr. Adams. Not John, not Doc, not Good Ol’ Johnny A. Strictly Mr. Adams!” He had a low, hoarse voice as he shouted, and you winced. That was… less than enjoyable. “For those of you that heard it’s an easy A in here, you heard wrong. I expect your best in this class. I have a few ground rules…” he paused as he looked around the room, scanning the crowd, and you slumped down in your seat, seeking refuge from his searching eyes. “One, do not sleep in my class. I do not go into your bedroom and shout lectures at you, so do not come to my class and snore. Two, show up on time or don’t show up at all. Tardiness is distracting and rude. If you don’t want to be here that bad, then just don’t come.” It was official. You did not like Dr. Adams. No, in fact, you already resented the man. “Three, this is not gossip hour. If I am speaking, you are listening. Your parents did not spend thousands of dollars so that you could show up late, snore through half the class, and gossip for the rest.” You rolled your eyes and stopped listening to him. Like I mentioned, authority issues. This guy was such a hard ass. Who pissed in his cereal this morning? And you were actually offended that he assumed you were all born with silver spoons in our mouths. Not all of you had precious daddies to pay for college. Not all of you were born rich. You were torn from your internal scowling by the slamming of a door behind you, and the room shuffled as all eyes turned. A man, about twenty-two, strode in. He was tall in stature, his curly, unruly hair pulled back into a bun, and his skin glowed. He had a shy smile on his face as he quickly walked towards you, his eyes set on the empty seats by you. Please no. Not your safe haven. “Mister…?” Dr. Adams trailed off, distaste in his voice as he stared at the man. “Ah, Lafayette. Sorry I’m late! The office-” the man began, a slight French accent to his tone. Dr. Adams rudely interrupted, dismissing any excuse the man had. “You know the phrase ‘better late than never,’ Mr. Lafayette? In this class, never is always better,” the old man’s voice was full of chaste as he glared at Lafayette. He waited for a response, and when he got none, he turned on his heel and approached his desk. Lafayette quickly scampered to the chair next to you and dumped his bag in the empty seat next to him. You cringed away, annoyed. “What a jerk!” He whispered to you, mischief twinkling in his eyes, before he leaned over and pulled a notebook from his messenger bag. You didn’t say anything; you just stared at your paw print notepad. Dr. Adams began to drone in the background, but you weren’t paying attention. You weren’t feeling it today. Your focus was elsewhere. You glanced over at the bronzed, radiant skin of your neighbor. His fingers gripped a fountain pen as he wrote notes in elegant, blue cursive across a gridded page. His tongue poked from his mouth in concentration, and every now and then, he would glance up at the professor, who was furiously scribbling away on the board in messy lines similar to chicken scrawl. Lafayette glanced up at you to catch you staring and grinned, which caused you to turn crimson and quickly turn away. You bit your lip in disdain as the clock slowly ticked on the wall, counting down the seconds, minutes, hours, that you’d be confined to this dungeon of a class. At some point in the middle of Dr. Adams shouting about Britain, the phone rang. He muttered something before he turned and answered it. He said a few words. Shortly after, he covered the receiver and barked out permission to converse quietly. Then he went back to his conversation. Mr. Lafayette looked up from his notes and gave you a small smile. “I heard that Adams was an asshole, but I never imagined he would be this bad!” You nodded in agreement, not meeting his eye. You weren’t sure why he was talking to you. After a long pause, he spoke again, “I’m Marquis de Lafayette, but mes amis call me Lafayette… it’s a pleasure to meet you, mademoiselle…?” You glanced up at him as he stared at you expectantly, his French still dancing across your mind, “Uhh…” was all you got out as you stared at him stupidly. “Y/N” Thank God. You managed to form a sentence. We’re going places. “Ahh, that’s nice. So why are you here, y/N?” His accent made your name sound so erotic, and you felt your lips twitch in a smile. “To get a degree in psychology… or writing… or music… I don’t know… how about you?” How were you doing this? How were you managing to actually carry a conversation with him? Oh yeah, I forgot, you’re you. You’re dazzling. “Ahh, the American experience? I’m actually planning on being a doctor eventually!” His face lit up at the mention of his dream, and his smile was contagious. “I can’t wait to help people! I want to be the good in the world!” You stared at him in awe as he went on, the occasional French slipping into his speech as he got more excited. The faster he talked about his dreams, the heavier his accent got until he was rambling in full French, and all you could do was watch in wonderment. Amazing. You picked up on a few phrases that brought forth your vague understanding from French III back in high school such as “mon père”, “m'aide”, “j'espère”, and the occasional “mes amis” or “mademoiselle”. Other than that, his accent was so thick, and your French was so incompetent, you had no idea, whatsoever, as to what he was talking about. Luckily, the bell finally rang, interrupting his spew of French, and he paused for breath. He gave you another grin as he brushed some curls out of his face. “Ahh, au revoir, Y/N, à tout à l'heure!” He stood up and grabbed his bag, slinging it over his shoulder, then he turned and began to leave. Before you could stop yourself, you called back, “Salut!” Which was basically the only French you remembered aside from the occasional “oui, oui, baguettes.” Lafayette paused before he looked over his shoulder at you with wide eyes. A full blown grin contorted his face before he waved and was ushered from the room by the crowd. Perhaps that small “salut” you called out was the real atom that started it all.

[thesonicarchitect-blog]

A History of Recording The Blues

(This is my own work and research.)

The achievements of audio recording technology can never be understated. If it had been developed later, in the early 20th century instead of the late 19th, the field hollers that founded the base of the blues, the early minstrels that developed the sound, the pioneers that developed it to its signature voice, would not continue to influence and be heard today.

Attempts at capturing sound began during the Industrial Revolution in the1800s. Pioneering attempts to record were made during the late part of the century, and culminated in the invention of the phonograph, patented by Thomas Edison in 1877. Emile Berliner, who had developed a carbon microphone in 1877, would also develop the easily reproducible disc record in the 1890s, allowing for records to be listened to at home on Edison’s invention. The earliest recording technologies were mechanically based recorders that used a large horn to collect and focus the physical air pressure of the sound waves produced by the source. A sensitive diaphragm would be located at the high point of the cone, connected to an articulated scriber, which would scratch signals of the sound waves onto a recording medium, such as a disc coated with wax, as the changing air pressure moved the diaphragm back and forth. The later development of the vacuum valve amplifier and the electronic microphone by Western Electric made sound available with good quality and volume, and was adopted by major US record labels in 1925. Recording was now a hybrid process- while sound could be captured, amplified and balanced electronically, the actual recording process was still mechanically based, with the signal still being inscribed into a disc, which could then be mass-produced by stamping impressions of the master on polyvinyl plastic disks.  

Further developments by Western Electric improved the fidelity of recorded sounds, increasing the frequency range to between 60 Hz and 6000 Hz, a wider band than before, and allowing “the capture of a fuller, richer and more detailed and balanced sound,” in addition to electronic amplifiers that enabled instruments such as the guitar and the string bass to compete on equal terms with louder instruments, such as horns and percussion. The electric microphones led to a change in the performance style of singers, and in combination with the November 1920 release of Mamie Smith’s “Crazy Blues”, brought about the emergence of “race music”. The most popular was Lucille Hegamin, who recorded nine songs in the early 1920s that were released through various labels around the country. While major labels preferred to release ragtime and classical records, smaller labels were quick to capitalize on the craze for the developing genre. In 1921, Black Swan Records was founded by a man called Harry Pace, who had a mission to find and record the best musicians and singers among the African American population, recording vocal quartets and vaudeville acts alike in this search, while boosting the sale of records by artists such as Ethel Waters and Alberta Hunter. Outside of vaudeville and vocal group acts, there were few recordings of African American men at this point in time. Though jazz was growing as a genre, the first jazz records were made largely by white musicians, and blues music had yet to emerge, with only three blues records, by Roberta Dudley and Ruth Lee, released in this time period. By early 1923, the record industry was growing. Bessie Smith was signed to the major label Columbia, where her records reached sales unprecedented before this point. Regarded as one of the greatest singers of the era, and the highest paid black entertainer of her day, she began the public’s initial introduction to the blues.

           "The delta isn't really the Mississippi's delta, which lies several hundred miles farther south...(but) a flat, fertile, leaf shaped plain that stretches from just south of Memphis down to Vicksburg, a distance of around two hundred miles" (Palmer, 1981). The Delta’s early settlers were pioneers moving with their families and slaves into the swamps and forests after the Choctaw tribes ceded their lands east of the Mississippi to the United States. These settlers set up large plantations and were ready for their first crop within a year or so of clearing and draining the land. The dark, rich soil of the Delta plains was perfect for cotton picking, which required hired hands, that in the Southern economy were difficult to come by, particularly after the Civil War, when the economy of the South was in such a state that many farmers and plantation owners could barely afford to buy seeds, let alone labor. And so a deal was struck between the white landowners and the black laborers, explained and examined by Robert Palmer in his book Deep Blues: “The white landowners, through mortgaging their property or through credit connections, scraped together enough cash to provide seed, implements, provisions, and basic shelter for the blacks who were willing to stay on and work. In return, the blacks planted and harvested the crops, under the supervision of a handful of salaried white overseers on the larger plantations and under the watchful eye of the owner himself if the farm was smaller. It was up to the plantation owners to sell each year’s cotton harvest, compute each black family’s fair share of the proceeds, deduct the market value of the food, clothing, and other necessities that had provided to that family, and pay them that difference in cash. In theory, the system was fair enough, but in practice it was heavily weighted against the blacks. The price of cotton on the open market fluctuated wildly. At the end of a good year, a large, hardworking black family might expect to see some cash…At the end of a bad year, and most years seemed bad to some degree, the blacks wound up in debt…Families that stayed on the same plantation year after year found that they sank deeper into debt regardless of how hard they worked…This was the sharecropping system.” (Palmer 1981) Palmer notes similarities to the feudal system of medieval times, and comments that sharecropping “may have been born out of mutual dependency, but it endured by playing on mutual distrust.” (Palmer 1981) Black laborers assumed that they would be exploited by plantation owners, but preferred them to the racism of poor whites, enemies of both the blacks and plantation owners, who while distrusting the black labor, trusted it more than that of the poor whites that fiercely competed amongst themselves for work. Blacks that sought work up North found equally harsh competition with European immigrants for city jobs, though one could still earn enough to enjoy themselves on a Saturday night.

           While overseeing the plantation workers, it was not uncommon for one to hear the workmen keep up a rhythmic song as they went, with one strong voice taking the lead, improvising short, poetic lines, and the others replying with a refrain. These songs would reference local gossip, Biblical stories, or women known to the workers. In June 1901, an archaeologist named Charles Peabody was investigating Indian mounds in the vicinity of several plantations when the field hollers caught his ear. Having had some musical training, Peabody was intrigued enough to jot down his impressions and descriptions, later to be published in the 1903 Journal of American Folk-Lore. These are the earliest descriptions of black music in the Delta, and while the music wasn’t referred to as the blues, it was the root of what would grow to be the genre.

           Most Africans that were taken at the start of the slave trade were from a stretch of West African coast the traders called Senegambia. In the societies that inhabited this area, musicians belonged to a social caste called the griots, who would sing the praises of the community’s powerful and the histories of the people. The griots were both loved and hated, for though they would build considerable reputations, they were thought also to consort with evil spirits, and after death were often left to rot in hollow trees.  Their music relied heavily on driving polyrhythms pounded on percussive instruments and the call and response of their voices, and on the group participation of the village, for their music encouraged participation. The singing would include various tonal effects, from grainy shrieks to hoarse and guttural growls that would later be echoed by the traveling minstrels in the taverns where black laborers, after a hard week’s work on the plantation, would go to carouse and enjoy themselves. While working in the week, the workers chanted and hollered as slaves had done in the fields earlier in the century, their melodies seemingly based on the major scales familiar to European ears, but their voices wavering or flattening the thirds, fifths and sevenths, relying on their own harmonic inclinations. The recordings of artists such as Charley Patton, Son House, and even the later stylings of Muddy Waters and Howling Wolf echo these tendencies.

           While plantations initially had local bands that would play at events hosted on the land, these orchestras were disbanded after the Emancipation to save on money, and many of these musicians took to the roads. Walking from plantation to hamlet, street corner to street corner, the musicians lived on busking on the weekends, when the workers would come into town to let loose and party. Their repertoires consisted mainly of dance tunes, spirituals, and ballads, that would often ramble on to keep the crowds dancing, the entertainers frequently improvising as they went. These compositions were referred to as “jump-ups”, and while they were connected to the blues, to the point one might say the blues was an evolution of jump-ups, they were reserved for rowdy environments of taverns and social events. The musicians roamed far and wide, which is where regional distinctions become useful in examining the evolution and emergence of the blues. In the southwest, most notably in Texas, the music leaned closer to boogie woogie rhythms and elaborate flourishes than it did in the Delta, where intense, gritty melodies were hollered over percussive accompaniment with hypnotic charisma, with slashing guitar lines played with broken-off bottlenecks. It was here in the Delta where the blues would experience the majority of its growth.

           One of the most important musicians of this period was named Charley Patton. Little is known of the man that would later be regarded as “The Father of the Delta Blues”, though his rough, barbaric style of playing would become enormously influential among his contemporaries. In his book, Palmer examines Patton’s recording of “Pony Blues”, a record that “depends for its musical effect on an extraordinary rhythmic tension. The guitar part strongly accents the first beat of each measure, while the vocal is just as strongly accented on beat four. Furthermore, Patton carries the note that begins on each accented fourth beat over into the next measure, producing the polyrhythmic effect of a three-beat measure followed by a five beat measure over the clearly delineated four-beat measures of the guitar part. The rhythmic picture is further complicated by the way both the vocal and guitar parts skillfully weave triplet figures into the piece’s duple-meter flow, and by Patton’s use of off-beat accents, which he bangs out on the body of the guitar. The song’s verses are each approximately thirteen and a half bars in length- three four-bar phrases, each followed by a two bar fill, adding up to a structure that sounds perpetually off-balance and adds yet another dimension of rhythmic complexity. Most of the rhythmic devices Patton uses have counterparts in West African drumming, and he uses them in an African manner, stacking rhythms on top of each other in order to build a dense, layered rhythmic complexity. Blind Lemon Jefferson and other Texas bluesmen who were more or less Patton’s contemporaries employed polyrhythmic effects in a manner that was essentially linear rather than layered; instead of stacking contrasting rhythm patterns they tended to join them end to end…Patton’s command of vocal nuance is equally noteworthy. He handled his voice like an instrument, to alter the stresses of conventional speech for purely musical ends. ” (Palmer, 1981) Underrated by his contemporaries because of his primary focus as an entertainer, this technical brilliance would go unrecognized until years after his death, with bluesmen such as the legendary Son House expressing surprise at his skill. House, a failed preacher and convicted murderer, had played with Patton frequently, and had, along with Tommy Johnson and Willie Brown, been recommended by Patton to Paramount Records, who had recorded Patton the year before. Both Brown and Johnson received more praise in their time than Patton for their technical skill, though the three frequently played together. Brown would provide fast and aggressive melodic lines and rumbling bass patterns while Patton indulged in various performing antics such as throwing his guitar in the air and dancing about. Johnson, not content to serve as a mere sideman, possessed a polished and clean guitar technique, paired with a powerful voice and a sinister reputation grown from stories encouraged by Johnson himself that he had sold his soul to the devil, an image that would be echoed in later years by the most renowned bluesman of the period, Robert Johnson, who bore no documented relation.

           In contrast to Tommy Johnson’s boastful image, Robert Johnson’s myth extended beyond the mere sale of his soul, to stories that he was in league with the Devil himself, and his prowess on the guitar seemed to support the tale. Palmer writes, “He made the instrument sound uncannily like a full band, furnishing a heavy beat with his feet, chording innovative shuffle rhythms, and picking out a high, treble-string lead with his slider, all at the same time. Fellow guitarists would watch him with unabashed, open-mouthed wonder. They were watching the Delta’s first modern bluesman at work.” (Palmer, 1981) The field recording units sent out by competing labels attempting to capitalize in the wake of Bessie Smith’s success had ended some years before Robert Johnson made his first and only recordings in November 1936, due to the onset of the Great Depression. Some units had stayed in Memphis, at the top of the Delta, recording numerous artists and providing a clear picture today of the blues in the 1920s. But by 1936, these units had retreated, and most blues recorded in this period was based in the cities, where Chicago had developed its own unique strain, and jazz was coming into its own. If field representative Ernie Oertle hadn’t taken an interest in Johnson and invited him to San Antonio, Texas to record, Robert Johnson would have been easily lost among the traveling bluesmen of the period. Charley Patton’s former mentor, talent scout H.C. Speir, had recommended Johnson to Oertle, with whom he arranged the sessions, months in advance. Unlike the approach of Patton, House, and others, who had only loosely arranged their recorded songs, Johnson focused on developing tight arrangements with uniting thematic elements. He recorded eight sides during his first session, including later hits “Sweet Home Chicago”, “Terraplane Blues”, and “I Believe I’ll Dust My Broom”, facing a corner in a hotel room with the engineers in the adjoining room. Contrary to rumors of shyness, Johnson did this to achieve an acoustic effect, regarded as “corner loading”, a technique that eliminates most of the top and bottom frequencies of the guitar while emphasizing the middle. Though arrested the same night, he was released the next day, and completed the sessions over the next several days. Johnson sat six feet away from each of the adjoining walls of the corner, with the microphone approximately four feet to his right as he played, the cable running into the other room. The most famous of the 32 recordings he made during these sessions would be “Cross Road Blues”, song in which “the guitar rhythm is deliberate and driving, but Johnson repeatedly interrupts it to hammer and bend a single string, so forcefully that the instrument momentarily sounds like an electric guitar. Examined more closely, the guitar accompaniment is a complex, carefully constructed, mercurially shifting succession of two-beat and three-beat figures, and an equally complex, equally mercurial alternation of driving bass riffs and high, bottlenecked lines. The singing is tense, as if Johnson was forcing wind through a throat constricted by fear.” (Palmer 1981). Though the recordings did not sell well in his lifetime, Johnson would be rediscovered in the early 1960s, with artists such as Muddy Waters, Howling Wolf, Chuck Berry, The Rolling Stones, and Eric Clapton taking cues from his style, which had been influenced by Patton, House, Tommy Johnson, Brown, and others. His influence continues to extend to this day, and if not for his recordings, modern music would not be the same today.

If it hadn’t been for the development of the audio recording medium in the 19th century, the sounds of the blues as they were captured in that period of the genre’s growth would have been lost. They would not have influenced the artists of the later stages, the Howlin Wolfs, the Muddy Waters, the blues-rock musicians of the sixties, all of whom have contributed enormously to modern musical culture, and continue the blues influence to this day.

My Citations:

"Recording Technology History: notes revised July 6, 2005, by Steven Schoenherr", San Diego University (archived 2010)

Palmer, Robert. Deep Blues. New York: Viking, 1981. Print.

"Robert Johnson Recording Set Up and Location." TheDeltaBlues. 2009. Web.

"Chronology of Blues on Record." Chronology of Blues on Record. Web.

"A Brief History of the Blues." A Brief History of the Blues. Web.

"Recording The Blues." All About Blues Music. Web.

http://www.aes.org/aeshc/docs/recording.technology.history/notes.html

"Depression and Consolidation 1925-1940." History of the Recording Industry. Web.

"THE HISTORY OF SOUND RECORDING." THE HISTORY OF SOUND RECORDING. Web.

[hamilkilo]

Overview above

Chapter 1

Word Count: 1683 TW: snarky sass and a grumpy, old man

Everything starts out small and insignificant. Atoms are infinite and meaningless until they combine and interact to form the most complicated structures and organisms known to man. We cannot even begin to comprehend their complexity. These glorious combinations of stardust and galactic energy are byproducts of something smaller than small. Something meaningless. The best, most beautiful things come from nothing.

I guess I could say that the meaningless act that started it all was when my parents decided to bareback it into the night, and I was mistakingly (and regrettably) conceived. This began my ever so casual, uneventful, dreadfully boring existence. My life consisted of mistake built after consecutive mistake; atoms on top of atoms until it formed a huge, complex mistake known as myself. However, by some act of God, I miraculously managed to make it through high school. It took a lot of tears, lies, and countless bullshitted assignments, but I made it. Considering I had major authority issues and crippling depression, my accomplishment still boggles my mind. The most surprising part of it all, however, was the fact that I somehow had managed to get myself into college. All of my mistakes had snowballed on a slippery slope into this. So there I was, standing at the gates of this new Mt Bullshit, and I was ready to climb it. I had my grappling hook of manipulative tears, my safety harness of reliable mental illness to fall back on, and the determination of a scorned liberal. I could do this. On the downside, in the literal sense of what I had on me was a pencil and a notepad shaped like a paw print. I was not prepared for college. This, to me, was a major accomplishment considering that I had also remembered to put pants on this morning. When I first went into the enormous lecture room of the reasonably priced, ninety-four percent acceptance rate university, I was overwhelmed. I wasn’t used to classes this large. The room was already considerably full with a full roar of chatter. I also noticed how out of place I was next to the kids who were actually prepared for class. Some even had text books and laptops. Joke’s on them; I have depression! I scanned the room for an open chair in a quiet corner, and to my orgasmic delight, there was an empty row in the back, shadowed out by the awkward angles of the lecture hall. I quickly made my way to my safe haven and sat down. I pulled out my phone and slid my headphones in, glad I remembered the items that actually mattered. I began to listen to my song of the week, my most recent obsession, “Cecelia and the Satellite.” I stared at my paw print notepad I had gotten on clearance and smiled to myself. I loved cats so much. Just then, the bell rang above the background noise of the song, and I pulled my headphones out. I saw, although I had to squint to make it out, a stout, old man make his way across the room before he stood in front of his chalk board. This uni was so outdated. Glad to see they used the tuition reasonably. “Good morning, whipper snappers! I’m your history professor, Dr. Adams. Only Dr. Adams. Not John, not Doc, not Good Ol’ Johnny A. Strictly Mr. Adams!” He had a low, hoarse voice as he shouted, and I winced. That was… less than enjoyable. “For those of you that heard it’s an easy A in here, you heard wrong. I expect your best in this class. I have a few ground rules…” he paused as he looked around the room, scanning the crowd, and I slumped down in my seat, seeking refuge from his searching eyes. “One, do not sleep in my class. I do not go into your bedroom and shout lectures at you, so do not come to my class and snore. Two, show up on time or don’t show up at all. Tardiness is distracting and rude. If you don’t want to be here that bad, then just don’t come.” It was official. I did not like Dr. Adams. No, in fact, I already resented the man. “Three, this is not gossip hour. If I am speaking, you are listening. Your parents did not spend thousands of dollars so that you could show up late, snore through half the class, and gossip for the rest.” I rolled my eyes and stopped listening to him. Like I mentioned, authority issues. This guy was such a hard ass. Who pissed in his cereal this morning? And I was actually offended that he assumed we were all born with silver spoons in our mouths. Not all of us had precious daddies to pay for college. Not all of us were born rich. I was torn from my internal scowling by the slamming of a door behind me, and the room shuffled as all eyes turned. A man, about twenty-two, strode in. He was tall in stature, his curly, unruly hair pulled back into a bun, and his skin glowed. He had a shy smile on his face as he quickly walked towards me, his eyes set on the empty seats by me. Please no. Not my safe haven. “Mister…?” Dr. Adams trailed off, distaste in his voice as he stared at the man. “Ah, Lafayette. Sorry I’m late! The office-” the man began, a slight French accent to his tone. Dr. Adams rudely interrupted, dismissing any excuse the man had. “You know the phrase ‘better late than never,’ Mr. Lafayette? In this class, never is always better,” the old man’s voice was full of chaste as he glared at Lafayette. He waited for a response, and when he got none, he turned on his heel and approached his desk. Lafayette quickly scampered to the chair next to me and dumped his bag in the empty seat next to him. I cringed away, annoyed. “What a jerk!” He whispered to me, mischief twinkling in his eyes, before he leaned over and pulled a notebook from his messenger bag. I didn’t say anything; I just stared at my paw print notepad. Dr. Adams began to drone in the background, but I wasn’t paying attention. I wasn’t feeling it today. My focus was elsewhere. I glanced over at the bronzed, radiant skin of my neighbor. His fingers gripped a fountain pen as he wrote notes in elegant, blue cursive across a gridded page. His tongue poked from his mouth in concentration, and every now and then, he would glance up at the professor, who was furiously scribbling away on the board in messy lines similar to chicken scrawl. Lafayette glanced up at me to catch me staring and grinned, which caused me to turn crimson and quickly turn away. I bit my lip in disdain as the clock slowly ticked on the wall, counting down the seconds, minutes, hours, that I’d be confined to this dungeon of a class. At some point in the middle of Dr. Adams shouting about Britain, the phone rang. He muttered something before he turned and answered it. He said a few words. Shortly after, he covered the receiver and barked out permission to converse quietly. Then he went back to his conversation. Mr. Lafayette looked up from his notes and gave me a small smile. “I heard that Adams was an asshole, but I never imagined he would be this bad!” I nodded in agreement, not meeting his eye. I wasn’t sure why he was talking to me. After a long pause, he spoke again, “I’m Marquis de Lafayette, but mes amis call me Lafayette… it’s a pleasure to meet you, mademoiselle…?” I glanced up at him as he stared at me expectantly, his French still dancing across my mind, “Uhh…” was all I got out as I stared at him stupidly. “Rayne. Jayden Rayne” Thank God. I managed to form a sentence. We’re going places. “Ahh, that’s nice. So why are you here, Jayden?” His accent made my name sound so erotic, and I felt my lips twitch in a smile. “To get a degree in psychology… or writing… or music… I don’t know… how about you?” How was I doing this? How was I managing to actually carry a conversation with him? Oh yeah, I forgot, I’m me. I’m dazzling. “Ahh, the American experience? I’m actually planning on being a doctor eventually!” His face lit up at the mention of his dream, and his smile was contagious. “I can’t wait to help people! I want to be the good in the world!” I stared at him in awe as he went on, the occasional French slipping into his speech as he got more excited. The faster he talked about his dreams, the heavier his accent got until he was rambling in full French, and all I could do was watch in wonderment. Amazing. I picked up on a few phrases that brought forth my vague understanding from French III back in high school such as “mon père”, “m'aide”, “j'espère”, and the occasional “mes amis” or “mademoiselle”. Other than that, his accent was so thick, and my French was so incompetent, I had no idea, whatsoever, as to what he was talking about. Luckily, the bell finally rang, interrupting his spew of French, and he paused for breath. He gave me another grin as he brushed some curls out of his face. “Ahh, au revoir, Jayden, à tout à l'heure!” He stood up and grabbed his bag, slinging it over his shoulder, then he turned and began to leave. Before I could stop myself, I called back, “Salut!” Which was basically the only French I remembered aside from the occasional “oui, oui, baguettes.” Lafayette paused before he looked over his shoulder at me with wide eyes. A full blown grin contorted his face before he waved and was ushered from the room by the crowd. Perhaps that small “salut” I called out was the real atom that started it all.