#if it were entirely up to me all three of em would form a little wasteland polycule

[ahfuckaghoulie]

What would your ideal canon progression of ghoulcy be in S2 and beyond?

oh man, thank u for asking

ideally they should fuck nasty style!!!!! that's the thing I'd die to see in S2+! my fantasy has a lot of arguing and building up tension, culminating in a physical fight that swerves right into fuckin hard 😏

I dunno how the Feelings and Relationship ought to develop. as it stands, they're curious about each other. Lucy obviously has a lot she wants to know from him, and the ghoul's worldview was rocked a bit by her. now they're gonna go on a journey together, and there are sooooo many ways they could go from here. i have no clue what the best route is like emotionally, my body just says they have to beat each other up and fuck about it which is 😳 but that can't be the whole narrative

[goldfades]

𝐀 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐒 ─ PB⁵

౨ৎ ─ summary | request -> "paige x iowa!reader (pre-relationship) on game day where maybe r is mic'd up the whole time so fans hear how they flirt, joke around, etc so they start shipping them? the other uconn/iowa girlies always tease them abt it and one night they all go out to a bar tg and someones on live and accidentally catches p and r against a wall kissing or smthn 🫣" for my lovely disco nonnie!

─ word count | 2.6k

─ warnings | teasing, lots and LOTS of teasing, mention of injuries, so much flirting, teasing, slightly suggestive, kissing.... oh and did i mention teasing????

─ taglist | guys idk why my taglist isn't working pls help me and lmk

─ ev's notes | okay so i want to know if yall like the little comment section i put in some of the posts, because i love doing them and i wanna know what ur thoughts are.

"OKAY, HEY LADIES and gents. It's your favorite, me. Y/N L/N," you tried to whisper into the mic secretively as you looked around. Before you could continue talking, you felt Caitlin grab your shoulders and shake you, eliciting a yelp from you.

You sent her a glare as she giggled and walked away, causing you to roll your eyes. "Anyways, sorry for that stupid interruption. It's game day here at Iowa and we're going against... I don't even remember their names."

You were obviously joking, you had plenty of friends on the UConn basketball team and it was running joke that you didn't like them. You smirked into the camera, knowing full well that your faux ignorance would rile up some competition.

"But hey, who needs names when we've got game, am I right?" You grinned, your enthusiasm showing. "So, while we prepare to show those other guys what real basketball looks like, let's talk strategy."

Leaning in closer to the microphone, you adopted a more serious tone, though the mischievous glint in your eye remained. "First off, we gotta dominate the boards. Rebounds win games, folks. Then, we'll run those fast breaks like there's no tomorrow. Speed kills, baby."

You paused for dramatic effect, pretending to adjust an imaginary headset. "And of course, let's not forget about defense. Lock 'em down, make 'em work for every shot. That's how we do it here at Iowa."

You turned around to see some of your teammates giggling at you, causing you to roll your eyes. "I'm getting bullied again, guys. Remember amazing, hot and very cool players have feelings too, okay?"

"Can you shut the hell up and come stretch with us?" You heard Caitlin shout from the court, causing you to sigh dramatically.

With a playful wink at the camera, you turned away, joining your teammates on the court for the pre-game warm-up. As you stretched and bantered with them, you saw the opponents walk in. You couldn't help but bit your lower lip as you averted your gaze from a particular blonde whom you've gotten close to these last couple of months.

After last year's game, Paige followed you on Instagram and you began talking more. However when you two got injured around the same time, it caused you two to talk more and form a closer bond. Eventually, it turned into Paige texting and calling you every single day and now, it's like you two have known each other your entire lives despite you guys seeing each other face to face three times.

You couldn't help but steal glances at her as you stretched, a small smile playing on your lips whenever your eyes met. The familiar banter and teasing between your teams seemed to fade into the background as you found yourself drawn to her presence.

But amidst the closeness, there lingered an unspoken tension ─ a delicate balance between friendship and something more. You couldn't deny the flutter in your stomach whenever Paige's eyes met yours, or the way your heart raced whenever she flashed you a smile.

Caitlin's voice broke through your thoughts, snapping you back to reality. "Yo, Y/N! Focus up, we've got a game to win!"

"Oh my gosh, look it's serious Caitlin I'm so scared," you spoke into the mic quietly, hoping that she wouldn't hear you. Unfortunately, she did and she got up, holding up her hand as you put your hands over your head. "No, I'm sorry!"

Caitlin laughed at your antics, her laughter infectious as she waved off your dramatic apology. "You're lucky I'm in a good mood today, Y/N," she teased, giving you a playful shove before turning back to the team. "But seriously, let's focus up. We've got a game to win, and I don't plan on losing to those guys."

"Yeah, me neither." She helped you get up from the floor as you walked to the bench. "Thanks, Cait," you said with a grin, falling into step beside her as you made your way to the bench.

As you settled onto the bench, you took a moment to mentally prepare yourself for the game ahead. The familiar sounds of sneakers squeaking on the hardwood, the echoing noise of the crowd, and the anticipation building in the air all served to fuel your determination.

You rose to your feet, eyes fixed on the court ahead. With a quick glance at the UConn's lineup, you immediately spotted Paige among their starting players. Your heart rate quickened slightly as you realized the task at hand — you needed to guard Paige and shut down her scoring opportunities.

In any other situation, it would be easy. Even if the person you were guarding was someone you were friends with, you always made sure to stay professional but this was slightly different. Paige had been the theoretical shoulder you'd been crying on for the last year about your injury that you'd just healed from.

As you stepped onto the court, Caitlin's words from earlier echoed in your mind. You couldn't afford to let Paige get the better of you, not today. You made your way toward Paige and as she met your eyes, she gave you a small smile. You could still talk to her, right? She held out her hand for a quick dap-up and you accepted it gratefully.

"Bro, me and Nika were just talking about how your hair is probably gonna be perfect. You have the best game day hair," Paige spoke finally as you laughed nervously, your gaze momentarily averting to the floor then back to her.

You felt yourself blush under her gaze as you playfully brushed off the compliment. "Oh, you think so, huh?" you smiled, trying to keep the mood light despite the butterflies fluttering in your stomach. "Well, what can I say? Gotta look good for the cameras,"

Paige smirked in response. "Oh, trust me, you always do," she teased, her words laced with a playful flirtation that made your heart skip a beat.

You looked into Paige's eyes, you couldn't shake the feeling of warmth that washed over you. There was something about her presence, her easy smile, that made you feel at ease, even in the midst of a game.

"Says you, with your cute braids. You gotta teach me how to do those one day, you know." You playfully nudged Paige's shoulder, a smile spreading across your face."Now you're just showing off," you teased, your tone light and playful as you admired the braids that framed Paige's face.

Paige chuckled, a soft sound that sent a shiver down your spine. "Or I can just do them for you once you actually visit Connecticut, like you promised."

You just realized that you were mic'd up, as you glanced down at the mic. You laughed nervously, shaking your head. "Alright, alright, you've got yourself a deal," you replied with a playful wink.

You then felt Kate's hand tap on your shoulder, motioning for you to come to the bench with her. Paige gave you a small smile as she did the same, your heart fluttering at the sight of her smile. With one last glance at Paige, filled with a mixture of excitement and anticipation, you followed Kate to the bench.

"Are you gonna lock in, Y/N?" Caitlin's voice rang out as you glanced up at the tall brunette. You saw the slight smirk on her lips as she gazed at you, teasing you without saying anything. She was practically screaming "you're whipped!" as she did.

"Yeah, I'm locked in," you responded as you averted your gaze, laughter echoing in between your teammates as a blush covered your cheeks.

"You know, cus if you're not, I can guard Paige while you go shoot-"

"Oh shut up, Caitlin I hate you." You groaned, causing her to laugh along with the rest of the team. Caitlin's teasing banter was a familiar part of the pre-game ritual, and despite your protest, you couldn't help but smile at her antics.

"Hey, just looking out for you, Y/N," she teased, her tone lighthearted as she flashed you a grin.

As the referee's whistle blew, signaling the start of the game, you shook off any lingering distractions and locked into the moment. This was it the moment you had been waiting for. With a deep breath, you blocked out the noise of the crowd and zeroed in on the game plan.

At one point, as you and Paige push for position under the basket, you couldn't help but let out a laugh as Paige jokingly accused you of stealing her post moves. "Hey, imitation is a form of flattery, right?" you quipped, earning a playful shove from Paige in response.

But perhaps the most memorable moment came when you and Paige found yourselves face-to-face during a heated confrontation for the ball. With the game hanging in the balance, you couldn't help but exchange a playful smirk with Paige, feeling a slight warmth on your cheeks.

Iowa had ultimately won the game but there was no bad blood between the two teams (thankfully), players from both teams exchanged handshakes and congratulatory words, acknowledging the hard-fought battle that had unfolded on the court.

Sure, some of the players were a little hurt but it wasn't like it was the end of the world. However, you knew at some point the two teams would have to play against each other during play-offs but you didn't let yourself get too worried right now. Right now, it was important to savor the moment, to celebrate the hard-fought victory with your teammates and bask in the camaraderie of the game.

──

"You looked good," Paige spoke as she leaned against the wall of the bar. Some of the girls on the team wanted to go out and celebrate and the UConn girls wanted to join. And that was how you found yourself standing next to Paige, a little tipsy as you leaned against the wall beside her, a warm flush spreading across your cheeks at her compliment.

"Thanks, you too," you replied, unable to hide the smile that tugged at the corners of your lips. You felt yourself shy away from her gaze, a stark contrast to how you usually were ─ teasing and outgoing.

Paige noticed that quickly, a small smirk appearing on her lips as she took a tip of her drink. "Aw, look at you, all flustered," she teased, her tone light and teasing as she nudged your shoulder gently.

"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up," you replied, rolling your eyes in mock exasperation. "Gotta stay humble, right?"

Paige laughed, the sound sweet and infectious as she leaned closer to you. "Don't worry, I think you can handle it," she said with a smirk, her words sending a shiver down your spine.

She gazed at you for a little longer as you looked away, only for her to grab your chin and hold it so that you kept looking at her. With a soft chuckle, Paige leaned in closer, her breath warm against your ear as she whispered, "You're cute when you're flustered,"

"I never thought that you could be shy, you know... with all that shit-talking on and off the court." Paige remarked as she let go of your chin, her gaze still heavy on you. "It's kinda giving me an ego boost,"

"Oh shut up," you mumbled as you took a sip from your own drink, Paige's gaze following your lips. There was something about the way she looked at you, the way her eyes seemed to linger on your lips, that made your heart race.

As you lowered your drink, you met Paige's gaze once more, a playful glint in your eyes. "You're not so bad yourself, you know," you replied with a smirk.

Paige chuckled softly, the sound like music to your ears as she leaned in closer, the warmth of her breath sending a shiver down your spine. "Oh, I know," she teased, her voice low and teasing as she leaned back slightly, a playful twinkle in her eye.

She wasn't usually ever this cocky, sure she's had her moments but never to this extent ─ she didn't know if it was the alcohol or just you. There was something about her self-assured demeanor that was both enticing and captivating, drawing you in with each exchanged word and shared laugh.

"Well, aren't you just full of yourself tonight?" you teased, a playful smirk tugging at the corners of your lips as you leaned in closer to her.

"Can you blame me?" Paige replied with a grin, her confidence unwavering as she met your gaze. "I mean, if you had a pretty girl getting flustered over every word you say, even after her beat team yours, you'd be feeling pretty confident too," she continued, her playful tone tinged with a hint of desire as she leaned in closer, the warmth of her breath grazing your skin.

"Well, I guess I can't argue with that," you replied with a grin, your tone light and teasing as you leaned back slightly, a playful twinkle in your eye. "But just remember, I'm not one to stay flustered for long."

With a playful smile, she leaned in closer to you. "Well, lucky for you, I happen to enjoy a challenge."

Her eyes kept flickering down to your lips as she downed her drink, putting it down on the table next to you. She leaned in closer, as if to test the water, grazing her lips against yours as your breath hitched.

She took your reaction as a yes, her hands finding your hips as she pushed you against the wall. She pushed her lips into yours in a hurried kiss, the intensity of her touch sending a jolt of electricity coursing through you.

You responded eagerly, your hands finding their way to her shoulders as you pulled her closer, the world around you fading away as you lost yourself in the moment. With a sense of urgency, Paige deepened the kiss, her hands exploring the contours of your body with hunger.

The taste of her lips was intoxicating, a heady mix of alcohol and longing that left you breathless. You forgot all about your teammates and who might see this and recognize the two of you, because neither of you really cared anymore.

Jada drank her water as she kept skimming through the comments of the live, reading them and chuckling at every remark toward you and Paige. Kate was behind her, momentarily blocking from everyone seeing what you two were currently up to.

Kate heard someone call her name as she quickly got up from her spot, turning to respond to the voice. As she moved away, the brief obstruction she provided from prying eyes was gone, leaving you and Paige momentarily exposed.

As Jada's gaze flickered to the screen, she froze, her eyes widening in surprise at the unexpected sight before her. "Oh shit- I mean, shoot." She quickly moved her phone as she glanced at the sight, giving the camera a shocked look as she thought about what she should do.

She had basically just outed the two of you but to be completely fair, it was on you two for making out in a very public bar. "Guys, don't worry that wasn't Paige that was just some other blonde. Sorry guys, you know how Y/N has a thing for blondes."

She sighed as she locked eyes with Kate, who gave her a shocked expression as she looked down at her phone. Kate gave her a look before Jada looked down at her phone, laughing as she waved.

"Looks like we are gonna have to end the live, sorry guys. Love you, bye, mwah mwah."

Paige finally broke the kiss, leaving the both of you to catch your breath. She smiled as her finger swiped your bottom lip, tracing the outline of it gently. You couldn't help but catch your breath, the taste of her lingering on your lips like a sweet memory.

"You're fucking beautiful," she whispered, her voice barely above a murmur as she leaned in to place a soft kiss on your lips again.

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[last-starry-sky]

this hungry thing inside me - pt. 1

price x reader - gaz x reader

[MDNI - NSFW - MIND THE WARNINGS: 4.7k, established relationship (price and reader are married), domestication/traditional gender roles, price is a good man but occasionally a terrible husband, relationship problems, arguments, mentions of manipulation, alcohol and smoking mentions, infidelity, dry-humping, kissing, biting, dirty talk, begging, fingering, oral, edging, reader is assuming the worst of her husband through-out most of this part with minimal self-reflection so have fun with that!]

Title is from THIS poem - also, happy 600 followers to me! 🥳

It’s a tragedy in three acts.

You love your husband and you know he loves you. That was given, unquestionable, the foundation you built upon. You wouldn’t have married him if that wasn’t true. That was the form of the first tragedy. Somewhere along the way, in the long years growing more and more familiar with each other, of planning your futures, of just living life, you grew complacent. Bored.

The walls of the nice little house his promotion had bought for the two of you was meant to be your freedom. That’s how he had framed it.

“Know you didn’t have to work anymore if you don’t want, love. Can do whatever you please now,” your husband had said soothingly that first night as he held you in his arms once the passion between you had cooled to a simmer. “Take care of me ‘n the house,” he paused before continuing, “kids, too,” he said with a small laugh, “when we finally get around to makin’ ‘em.” There was a long pause between you. You watched as the gauzy curtains blew lazily in and out. You house breathing in the cool summer night air. “Won’t have to worry over you when I’m away. I’ll know you’ll be here, safe,” he mumbled, a bristly smooch tickled your ear, making you smile. “I’ll be home more now, too.”

“Promise?” you whispered into the dim, blue light of your bedroom. The fumes of new paint wafted up from downstairs. The smell of new beginnings, of hope. He squeezed your hand.

He promised.

You took his offer but, just like any offer that seemed too good to be true, there were catches. You had kept up your end. You quit your job, taking up typical housewife activities: cooking homemade meals, scrubbing baseboards, going for early morning walks followed by falling asleep on the couch to some trash afternoon TV drama. All the usual things. It was John that couldn’t keep his end. While you tore through novels trying to keep from texting him for the fifth time when he would be home, he was just gone.

His new position kept him busy with confidential work most of the time, which also kept him on base. Strangely, you could have dealt with that. You could have grown used to feeling him slip in bed late at night and leave before breakfast the next morning. His job was important to him. He was respected. Most importantly, it afforded you a life most would cut their arm off to have. So, you tried to be patient. Grateful, you told yourself. You should be grateful for the snippets of time you were able to share. Even though he was dog-tired most of the time, spending long hours relaxing on the couch or sprawled across your bed.

You let yourself become a new thing entirely: soft and plain and domesticated. John, though, John remained the same. He still returned home with rough hands and skin tanned from days under an aggressive, blinding sun. Black grease and gun powder wore into the cracks around his eyes, and, most worrying to you, scars collected across his body. He told you when you met that men in his line of work had to be half-crazy to make it; adrenaline junkies, nomads, and it hurt you that he still lived like that. He was your husband, but he was a warrior too. A man without a home; without a reason to live.

You stopped doing things together almost entirely. You cooked dinners for one and ate them alone. You went to the shops alone. You worked out and wandered the city alone. As John put so eloquently in one of your arguments: “You’ve all the time in the world to do that shite when I’m not here. Why are you nagging me on my days off?”

An image came to mind when he said that. The image of the ball-and-chain, of the frazzled, ungrateful housewife, seared into your mind with his words. It rattled you so much that the argument stopped right there, dropping it as you walked away into the kitchen, leaving him alone in the living room. You didn’t want to be that to him. Couldn’t stand even thinking of it. If that’s how he felt, you told yourself, then . . . then you would stop nagging him. It was a bitter pill, but you swallowed it because you loved him. You cared about what he thought of you. The last thing you wanted was to drive him away now with your petty little problems. You loved your husband, you told yourself as you lay awake in the dark, so you pulled away. You threw away your “honey do” list. You deleted websites saved with holiday plans. You did your part. You stopped bothering him.

John relegated himself to the guest bedroom that night while you waited upstairs, wiping away the bitter, intermittent, tears that streaked down your face. You waited for the sound of his footsteps as they creaked up the stairs, for the door hinge to whine, announcing his entry. If he was good at anything these days, he was good at apologizing.Not with words, naturally, but physically. What John lacked in social skills he made up for with stamina and determination. It was hard to continue a fight with his face between your legs and you couldn’t stay angry for long at a man who could chain together orgasms like he was pulling taffy. Fucked out and sated, you would wake the next morning all the more forgiving and happy.

There was a creak downstairs. Footsteps. The TV turning off. Your heart began to race the second you heard it. You lay still in bed, facing the window as you continued to listen. More footsteps, but they were toward the front of the house. The opposite of where he should be heading. Shuffling. Soft thumping. The shuffling of a coat. The jingle of keys. You held your breath in the quiet dark, unwilling to face the truth of what your senses clearly told you was happening.

The door opened then closed softly. The deadbolt slid into place. Then, silence. Dreaded, nerve-fraying, silence. A few minutes later, long after you knew he had left, your phone vibrated at your side. A message from John. The first one you’d received unprompted in a long time.

“Lads invited me out for a drink. Be back later.”

-

Action and reaction. That’s the form of the second tragedy.

What’s the saying? “Don’t get mad, get even.” Whatever it was, you thought as you artfully lined your eyes, that was your new mantra. You stared into the vanity mirror and saw a new woman staring back at you. Not the old you, not the happy, professional woman always smiling next to her buff, military husband. No, you were a different animal entirely now. Newborn from the cocoon of the drab, boring housewife he’d transformed you into. You were reformed from months of dishpan hands and laying about on the couch. You would no longer allow yourself to crumble away, mentally and physically. You blotted your lipstick and gave yourself one last look in the mirror before you stood up.

If John couldn’t see how hot his own wife was, then you weren’t going to waste your time chasing after his attention anymore.

You wouldn’t lie. You felt guilty as hell the first few times you went out alone. Guilty that you’d left the little bubble of safety he’d constructed for you. The one he’d abandoned you in and visited rarely. Guilty that you left your wedding band and engagement rings in your jewelry box. Guilty that you were having fun on your own, letting the alcohol melt away the awkwardness of standing shoulder to shoulder with strangers in a strange bar. The music was good though, and so was the beer. You remember snippets of conversations, carrying on with the bartender, whomever was seated next to you, the girls fixing their makeup in the bathroom. You felt young again. Carefree and untethered. You remember leaving, walking home along the dark streets. The thick, syrupy, ball of happiness you’d built all night suddenly plunged into cold water, forming a hard, cracked surface as you steeled yourself at the front door.

John could be in there, you thought. He could be angry. Worried. Disappointed.

You pushed the door open. The empty hook where his coat usually hung and the space where his shoes sat in the hall the first two places your eyes nervously landed on. Empty, you saw. Still gone. Still alone. You checked your phone for the hundredth time that night just to be sure you hadn’t missed a call or text. Nothing. He didn’t know. He didn’t care. You had gotten away with it.

Was that a stupid way to look at it? Absolutely. The more you thought about it, the more ridiculous you felt. You were a grown woman. You could go out without your goddamn absentee husband’s permission. So, you did. You tried to make yourself irregular, harder to track. Random times, days of the week, always a different bar in a different part of the city. Sometimes you even hopped on the train to see what the adjoining towns had to offer. You always came back at the end of the night though, giddy with alcohol and buzzing with excitement, but home. A drip of guilt rolled down your spine. Yours and John’s home.

Still, before you left you would stand in the hall, hand still on the doorknob, keys in your other hand. This was the first hurdle, something within you told you. A part of you that knew better, probably, expected more. A part of you that looked and acted a hell of a lot like your husband. It asked you: If you had known where this road would lead you, this journey of revenge and self-discovery, would you have still done it?

You finally answered that question when you let your first hookup take you back to his place. In between sloppy kisses laced with the alcohol you’d let him buy you and the nicotine he’d shotgunned down your throat in the alley outside, you’d managed to string two brain cells together to tell him enough. He’d agreed quickly. Being under the same influences as you plus the aching erection he pressed against your jeaned thigh, it was a no-brainer.

You followed him back to his apartment, a nice little flat only a few blocks away, wrapped around him the whole way. It wasn’t until then that you realized how much touch you craved. John had been distant since his promotion. Sex had become less spontaneous, less fun. His lingering touches disappeared and the almost daily lovemaking had slowed from a stream, to a drizzle, to drops, before shutting off entirely. Now that you had another man, and a stranger at that, returning your nuzzles against his chest with loving strokes of strong, rough fingers through your hair, you could have sang. Could have cried.

He asked you what you wanted once he got you inside. Deliriously fuzzy and half-drunk, you were confident. You asked him to undress you and he followed your instruction without question. You closed your eyes and drank in the feel of his calloused palms against your skin: the way he reverently kissed your neck when he tossed your blouse to the floor, how he squeezed your ass in both hands after peeling your pants down your thighs.

“Bet your pussy tastes as good as you look, luv,” he breathed in your ear as he ground his trapped cock against the soaked silk of your panties. You whined, pulling him out of your neck by his short curly hair to stick your tongue down his throat. You couldn’t remember the last time John had talked to you like that and fuck me if you couldn’t get used to it.

“’s that what you want?” you slurred, hands roaming boldly up under his shirt. He had a gorgeous body from what you could feel; all planes of hard muscle from his groin up to some nicely defined pectorals. His biceps bulged under the grip of your wandering hands, making you flush as he groaned. His fingers wound in the fabric hugging your hips, threatening to use just an ounce of that strength to rip them away, to be done with it already.

“I want . . .” he said, lingering to a pause as he pulled away. His brown eyes half closed as he ran his hands appreciatively up your curves. Even in the weak city light, mostly blocked out by haphazardly-drawn blinds, you could see the warm brown of his skin. His hands stopped under your bra. Whatever thought preoccupied his mind until then had run through, prompting him to lean back in and place a kiss on your clavicle.

“Want whatever you want,” he said as he pulled away, trailing a line of kisses back up your neck. You were putty in his hands, uselessly moaning, pinned between him and the wall as you let him touch you as he pleased. “I’s just . . .” he trailed off again, hand swiping up your clothed pussy, making you squeak. “You’re actin’ like you haven’t been touched in years, luv,” he breathed against your ear with a biting kiss. God did you wish he wasn’t so bloody close to the truth.

You thought you saw sparks behind your eyes as he hitched your leg up around his hip. He effortlessly supported you, letting you wind your arms around his neck.

“Can’t have that,” he said soft yet authoritative, pressing a kiss to the hinge of your jaw. The tickle of his mustache faintly reminded you of John. You whined, rocking forward, searching blindly for pressure; for any relief for the need throbbing hot and wet between your thighs. He kissed your cheek, then your nose.

“Now now,” he soothed gently, a hand cupping your flushed cheek. “Stay with me. Tell me what you want,” capping his sentence with a kiss that sucked your top lip between his teeth. You groaned at the difference between the sharp pain of his teeth as they nipped again and again at your lip and his bubblegum-soft words filling your head. The way he held you so sure and strong but wouldn’t take anything from you. Not until he was told.

You didn’t think they made guys like him anymore. Your half-drunk brain swirled as he paused, the two of you breathing the same air. How the hell had you gotten so lucky?

“Kyle,” you breathed, light and airy. Your arms flexed around his neck, pulling him closer. “I’m so close,” you whined pitifully, eyebrows pressing together. “However you want to do it, just please,” you trailed off with another whine. His hands pressed divots into the soft flesh of your hips, a small betrayal of his slipping control. You sucked in a shuddering breath, willing yourself to continue; to get it all out. “Then . . . then I want you to fuck me,” you rambled out, tears welling up every time you blinked. He looked down on you with dark satisfaction, a pleased hum vibrating between his lips. “I need it. Fuck, do I need it, Kyle. Whatever you want. I can take it,” you begged against his lips, voice cracking. “Promise.”

-

You walked home wrapped in a daze, only noticing Kyle had left you a few blocks later. It took another block or so to piece everything together: he’d kissed the top of your head, squeezed your shoulders in a hug, asked you something you barely remembered, then pushed you forward across the crosswalk alone. You looked around, strands of sweaty hair itching at your skin. From the landmarks and style of houses you guessed you were near your own neighborhood. The functioning part of your brain kept your body walking on autopilot, forcing yourself forward. The rest of your mind was still occupied, reliving the wonderful night you’d just passed with him. With Kyle.

He’d given you exactly what you’d wanted, no further begging required. Pinned between the wall and his warm body, his strong fingers had efficiently worked an embarrassingly quick orgasm out of you. Boneless and panting against the cool wall, he’d chuckled into your neck; leaving little love bites as he waited for you to come down from your high.

“’s all you got, luv?” he’d goaded, gently stroking your already sweat-slicked thighs, “Tappin’ out already or are’y ready f’ more?”

Your hands around his neck weakly grabbed at his head, nails barely catching the close shaved curls at his nape. It was only now that you realized he must have been acting, just letting you think you’d pulled his head out of your neck in order to speak face-to-face.

“More,” you’d groaned, no bite left to your voice, as both of his hands palmed your ass to lift you away from the wall, “Need it.”

The street names became more and more familiar as the sun broke through the clouds, scattering the early morning fog. Around and around you traveled until you came to the familiar turn that marked your road. Your quaint, quiet little street lay in front of you. Thankfully, it was far too early on the weekend for anyone to be up and about. Every house you passed still had their curtains drawn, windows dark. As you drew closer to your home you instinctively reached for your house keys, finding them right where they always were, tucked safely in the first pocket of your purse. Your purse, you thought, your keys. He had made sure you had everything before you left.

Your stomach flip-flopped as you paused on your front step, key in hand halfway to the lock. He had been far too wonderful to just be a one-night thing. You blushed as you shoved your key in the lock with a shaking hand. The phantom of a thought crossed your mind that this could be yours and his house. He could be coming home to you. As you opened the door and crossed the threshold, you snuffed out the thought. Breathing in the familiar air of yours and John’s home; scented with his favorite laundry detergent, the mix of his colognes and your perfumes, the faint smell of lavender wicking into the stale air from the oil diffuser, it felt almost sacrilegious to think of another man like that.

It was just a one-time thing, you told yourself. Just a fling and nothing more.

You shook your head at yourself as you stripped off your jacket and shoes, your purse discarded haphazardly on the table. You checked the space where John’s jacket and shoes usually were. Still gone. The house was untouched from how you had left it last night. Strangely, it didn’t bother you that you had slept with another man. You searched your heart for guilt as you robotically went about your usual routine, but it just wasn’t there. You should have stopped right there, questioned yourself, maybe even called your husband to work through what should have been a turning point; a huge breach to the contract of your relationship. You didn’t, though. In that moment, you just couldn’t find it within yourself to care.

John had hurt you. He was growing more and more emotionally distant by the day. He had cut you off from your friends and family when he moved you out here and then severed your last tie to the outside world when he convinced you to stop working. You had been such a fucking fool to fall into his trap. You had nothing and he had everything. Money, power, control, it was all in his hands. Fuck him, you told yourself as you pushed open the door to the downstairs bathroom; the one John used when he slept in the guest bedroom. He did this to himself, you fumed. He deserves it.Deserves to be hurt for once.

Kyle, though, Kyle had cared about you.

You struck the invasive thoughts from your mind as you shut yourself in the tiny, tile-lined bathroom. You needed to take a shower, to wash him from you and be done with this petty journey of revenge. You needed to be cleansed of the outside world to return purified into this one again. Stripping off your clothes, though, you were struck with the sinking reminder that it wouldn’t be the easy task you’d imagined. Your thighs were marred with irritated red blotches and tiny, almost imperceptible, semicircles of dents. Plain evidence of the bites your fling had scattered around your sex.

He’d stopped to do that every so often; pulling away just as he’d worked you to that delicious, spiraling peak right before you tipped over into bliss. The wet heat of his tongue on your clit replaced with sharp nips of teeth that had you begging please let me cum please please, Kyle, please.

The band of his arm was iron-fast around your middle, his hands strong around your thighs. He had you right where he wanted and seemed more than satisfied to keep you there for the time being. He bit at the skin of your mons, right above your clit; right where you really wanted him. Through your squirms and whines, he simply held you down and shushed you quietly – soft and gentle kisses replacing bites as your pleasure receded – until your pleas faded into sighs and his bedroom fell silent once more.

You scrubbed shampoo through your hair, unaware how long you’d been standing under the cool spray. You rinsed and quickly worked conditioner through the ends of your hair before slathering yourself with body wash, intent on finishing your shower before the last of the hot water ran out. You couldn’t afford to stand in the stall any longer: daydreaming about how many times he brought you right up to that blissful high before cruelly pulling away just to work you back up again. You needed to wash him off of you. His heady, slightly sweet, cologne. The smoke and nicotine that decidedly wasn’t your husband’s cigars. Needed every particle that wasn’t your own, normal smell gone before-

There was a sound from somewhere in the house: the shuffling and clicking of something achingly familiar. You shut the water off in a panic. Over the dripping from the shower head you could barely hear it. The front door closing. The little sounds continued: shoes dropping onto the boot tray, keys jangling as they clattered against the counter, a jacket softly shuffling as it was dropped over a chair and not on it’s place on the empty hook in the hall. Everything added up to only one possibility: John was home.

Fuck, you swore over and over as you scrambled out of the shower; at yourself, at him, at the guy who fucked your brains out last night, at god. Someone had to be to blame for the royal mess you were in. You toweled yourself semi-dry in a whirlwind, stopping only to listen with baited breath for where John was, what he was doing. Nothing unusual, from what you could hear beyond the bathroom. You wiped off the mirror, glaring back at the misty reflection that greeted you like you were both Medusa and Perseus. You checked both sides of your neck quickly. No redness. No bites. You breathed a sigh of relief that somehow wasn’t relieving at all. Still, you grabbed John’s ugly plaid robe off the back of the door and rolled the collar up until it dusted your jaw. You couldn’t be too careful.

Chucking your towel in the bin with your clothes, you finally made your exit. With an extravagant plume of steam following you, you opened the door intending to quickly steal upstairs where you could dress and avoid your husband for the rest of the day. He was waiting for you though. Eyes soft and full of love, slouching lazily against the back of the couch to catch you as soon as the door opened.

“There she is,” he purred, gathering you in the inescapable embrace of his arms. You let out a gasp at his suddenness as he kissed the wet crown of your head, a hum of satisfaction on his lips. “There’s my lovey,” he said stroking down your back, as if he was trying to convince you this is how he was, how it always was. “How was the shower? Relaxing?” he asked, loosening his grip. You took your opportunity, possibly the only one he would give you, and slithered out of his grasp.

“Fine!” you called behind you as you thudded up the stairs.

You didn’t stop running until the door to the master bedroom slammed shut behind you. You lay your back against it; panting and heart hammering in your chest as you waited. John didn’t follow you. You heard him walk around downstairs; making something to eat in the kitchen before turning on the TV. He probably thinks you’re still mad at him, you told yourself. Good. You dressed in your usual lounging-about-the-house clothes while inspecting the rest of your body for any errant love-bites or marks you might have missed before slipping back downstairs.

You and John shared a terse, awkward morning. You floated around each other, never lingering too long in each other’s presence. If you entered a room, he left it. Beyond that, he followed his usual routine: laundering his bag of gross gym-clothes, making up the guest bed, paper, lunch, out for a smoke, a football match. It wasn’t until he wandered in the kitchen while you were making dinner for the both of you – by force of habit – that he spoke to you again.

“’m sorry f’ how I’ve been lately,” he said laying his large hands on the stone counter top behind you, the one he wanted, his shoulders squared forward. His apology was a shock, making you pause at the food in the pan you were stirring. You looked back at him, waiting for something else. What else, you didn’t know. You suspect he didn’t know either, because his pale blue eyes plead with you to shore up the difference, finish his own apology because he’s not good with words, love, go on ‘n make this right to yourself.

You turned back to your mushrooms sizzling in the thickening gravy. Silence fell for only a moment before John sighed behind you.

“I know it’s hard, love. Trust me, I know,” he said, the counter creaking as he leaned against it.

You steeled your back; not answering, not turning around. Oh, he knew what it was like to be left alone now? That was rich. He was the one always leaving you. Promising you he would be around more once you got married, once you bought the house, once he got his promotion. Promises, promises, promises. How much longer would it go on? When would you be able to believe him? Once you had your first child? Your third? In five, ten, fifteen years? Or would you be a widow by then?

His hands skimming your hips interrupted your stewing. He groaned as he pressed himself to your back, a gentle kiss ghosting your ear. “Miss you so bad, love. Miss bein’ home with you.”

Miss you. Miss you. Miss you. You thought, body drawn taught and dangerous under his wandering hands. So easy to be missed, John, when you’re never fucking here.

You clicked off the burner, shoving the bubbling skillet of gravy away as you slipped out of your husband’s arms for the second time today. He didn’t fight to keep you there. You knew what he was planning, knew all of his old tricks already. He would butter you up with soft words and half-apologies, pour you a few glasses of wine while watching your favorite movie for once before whisking you upstairs to make it all better in bed between your thighs. Rinse. Repeat. Rinse. Repeat. Everything would be back to how he liked it: his nice, pliant wife happily tucked away in his bungalow while he was out saving the world. If even that was true.

You weren’t out of the kitchen before John was sputtering, “But what about-”

“Not hungry anymore,” you muttered, tears spilling down your cheeks as you ran back upstairs, emotions rapidly fraying apart. You couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t let him touch you. Not now.

Not anymore.

-

[suugarbabe]

Lover

Pairing: Mattheo Riddle x Reader

Word count: ~1.5k

Warning: mutual pining, fluff

AN: this idea came from @annaisabookworm so thank you love for the idea 🤭

You were sat at your house table, leg bouncing uncontrollably as your headmaster discussed the N.E.W.T level classes your year was due to start next week. It was the first dinner and you were already a nervous wreck. A sudden hand on your knee stopped your shaking, “You’re gonna churn the pudding with how hard your leg is jumping, y/n/n.” You turned to face the hands owner, “Sorry, Matty. S’just, these new classes this year have me a bit shook.” Mattheo smiled at you, “You’re like, the smartest Slytherin there ever was. You put too much pressure on yourself.”

You scoffed a little at his compliment, “Come of it, am not.” You ignored his latter comment, choosing to suddenly be very interested in the bowl of potatoes in front of you, scooping half onto your plate. Theo and Enzo stopped eating in front of you, eyes growing a bit large. You glared at them, “Something to say?” They looked at each other, then back to you, shaking their heads. The headmaster announced curfew for the night, encouraging all the students to indulge in the food in front of them, which most everyone did. You pushed the potatoes around your plate, barely eating. “If yer just playing wiff ‘em can I ‘ake a few,” Enzo held his fork over your plate, cheeks stuffed to the brim with chicken and beans. You rolled your eyes, pushing your plate towards him.

Blaise leaned in from your other side, “Ya sure your good, y/n/n?” You nodded, standing up, “I think I’m just gonna go back to the common room and chill out for a bit. See you guys there?” Your friends all mumbled forms of goodbye. You looked to Mattheo, who just gave you sympathetic eyes. You returned the look before turning back towards the doors and making your way to the common room.

“Ya gonna go ‘fter ‘er mate?” Enzo looked up from his plate towards Mattheo. “You know it’s vile when you talk with food in your mouth,” Mattheo didn’t even look in his direction, still staring at the doors of the great hall you had just walked through. “You know he’s right, cousin,” Draco piped up for the first time of the evening, “watching you pine after her for years is right boring at this point.” Mattheo turned his head then, “I do not pine after y/n. She’s my best friend, all of our friend mind you. I’m just worried about her. Sure, she gets anxious but it seems a little different today. I just care.”

Blaise groaned, rolling his eyes, “Come now, bruv.” Mattheo finished his meal in silence, refusing to respond to any more of his friends' teasing. He walked back to the common room in a daze, mind filled with thoughts of you. You’d been part of the group since everyone’s first ride into Hogwarts. Mattheo had known Theo, Enzo and Blaise nearly his entire life, their parents either being death eaters for his father or a loyal follower and Draco, well, he was Mattheo’s cousin so he was forced to know him his entire life. The five boys nearly missed the first train because they were goofing off on the platform, causing them to not find an empty compartment for themselves. Theo had suggested the one you were sitting in, saying you were cute. He immediately tried to hit on you like he’d seen older boys do with girls, but you had whipped out your wand and bound him. It was highly impressive for a first year, and Mattheo was obsessed. Theo apologized, you ignored him, and then you allowed the rest of the group to join you nonetheless.

Mattheo wasn’t exactly sure when the lines blurred from best friend to full on heart wrenching in love with you. It was always sort of there in his mind, that you were special…different. If he had to put a timeline on when he actually recognized a change in his feelings it would be about three summers ago, when you had asked everyone to come to your parents house for two weeks during the holiday. Mattheo had only ever interacted with you at school, in the castle. You weren’t old enough to go to Hogsmead until the following year so he never really got to see you in a non-school environment. And it was…nice, different. Something that he could see himself enjoying often. The next school year after that nearly all the boys noticed a difference in how Mattheo responded to and acted towards you. You, however, appeared to remain clueless. Mattheo almost preferred it that way, until he could really know how you felt towards him, if it were the same as himself.

When the boys entered the common room, it appeared completely empty. That was, except for a cloud of smoke rising from one of the back couches, followed quickly by a row of rough coughs coming from deep in your throat. Mattheo was by your side quicker than Draco on a snitch, ripping the cigarette from between your fingers, “What the bloody hell are you doing with one of these?” You remained laying on the couch, catching your breath, “Okay, one: that was rude of you to just snatch that from me like that. Two: nearly all of you guys do it. You always tell me it helps you relax, so…I stole some from Teddy’s nightstand.”

“Heeyy…that’s my emergency stash,” Theo was pouting, now sitting under the end of your legs. You sighed, rubbing your temples, “This is an emergency, Teddy…I’m buggin. Stressed out of m’fucking mind.” Mattheo threw the cig in the fireplace going behind him, Theo’s opened his mouth to complain again but the look on Mattheo’s face made him sink back into the sofa silently. Mattheo turned to you, holding his hand out palm up, “C’mon, grumpy, come with me.” You looked up at him, grabbing his hand, “Where we goin’?” His dimpled popped with his smile, “You know where.” You sat up now, swinging your legs down and placing your feet on the ground, “Carry me?”

He turned around, squatting down in front of you. He hooked his elbows over your thighs and around your knees while you wrapped your arms around his chest, resting your face in the crook of his neck. You giggled as he hiked you up higher and got a better grip on your thighs. Behind you Draco made a gagging face before Blaise playfully shoved his shoulder. The boys’ voices slowly drowned out as Mattheo carried you through the portrait hole, down the corridors and through the courtyard, all the way to the edge of what you both had designated as your spot: the black lake.

When he finally let you down from his back, you took your wand out, transfiguring a patch of grass into a quilt for you both to sit comfortably. Mattheo sits down first, beckoning you to follow suit. You settle between his legs, your elbows resting on his bent knees while he leaned back on his hands. You looked over the lake, it was your favorite to do at night, especially when stressed or anxious. You loved seeing the stars reflected on the water, dancing with the shifts and ripples from the creatures.

You felt Mattheo’s arms wrap around your middle, his chest now pressed against your back as he rested his chin on your shoulders, “Feeling less grumpy?” His tone was slightly teasing, but you knew he was curious about your real answer. That’s how Mattheo was, hiding his true feelings behind teasing and sarcasm. It was frustrating sometimes, made him hard to read, but right now you were thankful for it.

“A little less grumpy, yes,” you smiled into your answer, eyes still on the lake in front of you. “How’d you know this would help, hmm?” Mattheo held you a bit tighter, “Cause I know you, y/n/n. You’re my best friend.”

Friend. The word made you want to vomit. But instead of reacting you just settled further into him. “Why were you trying to smoke earlier?” You sighed, “I told you, I was just trying to relax.” You felt Mattheo shake his head, “You really shouldn’t smoke. It’s terrible for you, ruins your lungs.” You scoff, “Rich comin’ from you don’t ya think?” You felt his laugh against your back, “Yeah, but you’re better than me. Always have been. Don’t start stooping to my level now.”

You shook your head, “Don’t talk bad about yourself, Matty. I’ll make you sit out here and listen to me go on and on about all the good things about you and get all sappy just like you hate.” He laughed against you again, you both falling into a comfortable silence. Mattheo wanted to hear everything you had to say, what good things you could come up with. In his mind the list was short. You were leaning into him now. He shut his mind off, focusing just on the water in front of him.

You two sat there for a while, until you started to shiver and Mattheo convinced you to go back inside. He carried you back like before, except this time you rested your head on his back, trying your best not to fall asleep wishing you meant more to him than just a friend.

[the-chosen-fanfiction]

Jesus | The Good Shepherd | Platonic

When a group of strangers shows up at your door, asking for shelter, you don’t have the heart to turn them away. Inside the barn where they can stay for the night, you discover just Who this Rabbi is.

Requested by Em

Judas sighs heavily as he rubs his brow, exhaustion heavy under his eyes. “I’m so tired,” he complains, “That I could sleep like a baby.”

“Don’t you mean like a brick?” Nathanael pipes up, “I mean, if you were to sleep like a baby, you’d wake up every three hours, poop your pants and puke all over yourself.” 

The keeper of the purse rolls his eyes, “Ha, very clever. Like a brick, then.” Nathanael gives a smug smirk as Judas corrects the mistake, but the smile falls just as fast. 

“Yeah, me too, honestly. I don’t recall ever being this tired.” 

“You say that after every long trip,” Big James protests, raising an eyebrow, Nathanael showing his palms in defence. “But I agree that I could also use some rest.”

The road from the Decapolis back to Capernaum has been long and tedious and the next town is far from near. Little James is in dire need of sitting down and at least half of the Disciples have bleeding blisters from where their sandals have been chafing against their feet for hours on end with no time to recover.

“Can’t we set up camp somewhere?” Andrew suggests, Jesus turning to him and smiling. 

“I didn’t take you for a mountain goat,” the Messiah quips. 

As he lets his gaze go over to the sides of the road, Andrew indeed notices the steep hills and slopes that hardly prove convenient to set up a tent, let alone build a fire. The younger son of Jonah sheepishly smiles. “Well, maybe not.” 

“Perhaps there,” Simon Peter suggests, nodding towards a small homestead that stands on a steep cliff. A few sheep are grazing just outside. “A farm. I think they’d have some room for us, yeah?” 

“You have sharp eyes, Peter.” Jesus compliments, “Come on, let’s give it a go.” 

The group sets out towards the small farm. “It’s… Really small…” John says. 

“Quite cosy.” Peter adds with a grin. “Maybe you could sleep between the sheep, snuggle them a bit.” 

John lets out a fake laugh and rolls his eyes. The followers fall quiet in their chatter as they walk up to the front door, Jesus walking out in front of them to knock on the wood. “Shalom!” He calls out, “Is anyone home?” 

A few beats of silence until the sound of someone fiddling with a lock breaks the quietness. “Wait, that’s not the right key…” comes a muffled feminine voice from the other side. “Aha!” A click is heard in the air and the door creaks open, the hinges long overdue for some oil. “Who is there?” One curious eye comes from the gap.

“We are unarmed,” Jesus calmly states, putting a hand on His chest. “My Name is Jesus, and these are My students. We are looking for a place to sleep, but the hills are too steep to set up camp, and the next town is too far away to travel to at this time of day.” 

You push the door open further as your eyes roam cautiously over the group of followers, a few kind smiles being directed your way. They seem to indeed have no weapons on their form, even a few women amongst them. “You’re Jews.” 

“We know.” 

Your eyes snap back to Jesus. “I’m a Roman.” 

“I know.” 

There is something in His gaze that makes you give in to the request, your guard lowering as you straighten your back. Slowly, you step aside to push the door further open to reveal the pokiness of your home. “I don’t have enough room in here to accommodate you all,” you whisper, “But we have a barn.” 

Jesus chuckles gently. “I’m not entirely unfamiliar with sleeping in those.” You tilt your head in slight question, but He waves it off. “Long story. Anyways, would you mind us using it? We will be on our way at the crack of dawn.” 

“I would ask my father, but he’s out on duty,” you tell Him. “I’m fine with it, provided you don’t harm the sheep and clean up after yourselves.” 

“Don’t worry about that,” Jesus says gently, “I love sheep, I use them in My teachings all the time.” 

A soft smile spreads over your face as you stand in the door opening. “Teachings? About sheep? Are you a shepherd?” 

Jesus shrugs. “You could consider Me a good One.” 

Before you can ask further, one of the followers of Jesus flinches in pain, all attention turning to him. “James!” Thaddeus rushes to his side to support him. “Ah, let’s get you off your feet for a bit.” 

Urgency suddenly tightens in your chest upon seeing his discomfort. “To the barn,” you tell them, grabbing the key from the peg on the wall, heading out in front of them to lead them to it. “Come on.” 

As you push open the heavy doors, the intense scent of sheep dung hits you in the face instantly. A few of the Disciples cough, but you’re used to the scent by now, unflinching. 

“Here you go,” you tell them, planting your hands on your hips as you look around the animal pens inside, walking over to an empty, clean one. “It is not the nicest nor the warmest, but I hope it will work for you. You’ll get used to the stink.” You open the small gate for them. “I will get you guys some blankets from inside. Would you also like some food?” 

Mary gives you a soft smile. “Forgive me for asking, since you owe us nothing, but… We have strict dietary laws,” she tells you, “So uh… What do you have?” 

“I’ve got some fresh bread that I prepared today,” you say after a moment of thought, “And I’ve got some dried fruits left. I’m not entirely certain if it’s enough for all of you, but it’s something.” 

“We will be grateful for everything you can offer us,” Jesus tells you, putting a gentle hand on your shoulder. “We still have some of our own provisions, so we will not be pillaging your larder and leave you behind hungry yourself. But… What is the name of our host?” 

You give a small hum. “I am (Y/n),” you say, “I live here with my father. My mother passed away when I was born due to complications. I look after the sheep whenever my father is out on guard duty. He uh… He’s away from home quite often.” You lower your gaze, even though you didn’t necessarily intend to open up so easily towards complete strangers, people from a whole different culture at that. “They keep me company.” 

“You don’t have a guard dog?” one of the followers, one with sleek hair wants to know. “Oh, and I’m Peter, by the way.” 

After nodding in greeting, you sigh. “We had one,” you say, “But he passed away a few months ago. We have yet to get a new one, and truthfully, I’m expecting my father to bring one home quite soon. One of his comrades knows a guy who breeds decent pups. Anyways, let me get you the items I offered.” 

An Ethiopian woman clad in beautiful hues of red and pink as well as a curly-haired young man follow you to help you out, introducing themselves as Tamar and Andrew. You load their arms with blankets and pillows, making sure to leave the prettiest cushions safely inside the homestead. After all, your father wouldn’t necessarily be happy if he found the family heirlooms full of holes and stains upon his return. 

From the pantry, you take a few loaves of fresh bread that you had intended to last you a week as well as a bowl of apples and some dried figs. You hand them to a Disciple named Thomas who gives you a wry smile as he stands in the small space with you, as if he doesn’t fully trust you. The two of you are strangers so you don’t dare to ask, but you can tell that there is something painful in his past that makes him particularly wary of you.

Carrying a few lanterns and candles with their respective holders, you find yourself heading back for the barn, where the sheep are giving you curious glances as to what the commotion inside their warm shelter is about. You pat one of their heads as you enter the stables, where several of the followers have already settled down on their personal mats and bedrolls. You help light the wicks of the candles and hand them out to spread them through the barn, careful to not hit any dry straw with the flames, until the place is oddly cosy.

“Thank you for this, (Y/n),” Philip says, taking a sip of water from a clay cup. “This is more than we could have bargained for.” 

“There is quite a draft in here,” you apologise, rubbing your arm a bit awkwardly, “It’s not the best, but—” 

“Nonsense,” Big James cuts you off, “This is wonderful. I agree with Philip. Thank you so much.” 

It is followed by more words of gratitude. Jesus gives you a kind smile as you look at Him, one of his hands resting on the head of one of the ewes. “Why don’t you come sit with us for a while, (Y/n)?” he suggests, “We’d like to get to know you, and we know you could use the company. For how long has your father been away now?” 

For a few beats of silence, you have to count inside your head. “He’s been away for… Almost a fortnight now.” 

A few mutterings from the group. “For so long? But you’re not even twenty springs old yet.” 

You shrug. “Well, it’s just how things are. Really, I don’t know any better.”

“How do you spend time all by yourself?” Tamar asks, “I mean, how do you keep busy other than tending to the sheep?” One of your favourite ewes snuggles against your shoulder and you pet her head, causing a few of the followers to mutter softly in awe.

You sigh and softly smile. “I like to spend time drawing,” you admit, “Sketching on parchment whatever I’m seeing. It’s… It’s not that good, but I like to do it anyways.” You gently pick at a hardened piece of wool inside the sheep’s fur and get out some dirt, not at all disgusted by the drool that lands on your hand when the animal nuzzles your fingers. “I enjoy nature, the way everything is so wonderfully put together. I’m not sure about how it all came to be, but it takes my breath away nevertheless.”

“That is quite lovely,” Mary tells you. “You have a beautiful mind and a kind heart.” 

You cannot help but blush a little at that. “Thank you,” you whisper softly. When a young lamb makes its way to the centre of the group inquisitively, it earns all the admiring focus from the group.

“Look at that little guy!” Andrew muses as it sniffs Thaddeus’ hand before licking it, causing the former stonemason to laugh lightly. “How adorable!” 

One of the other lambs follows his little sister and snuggles up next to Mary and Tamar, finding warmth in the little pets they give their heads. The mother sheep of the two bleats in your ear and you shush her with a fond smile. “Easy, Cecilia. It’s alright, they won’t harm them.” 

An unhurried silence falls in the barn in which the Disciples eat their meals, until you’re the one to speak up. “Say,” you begin, turning to Jesus, “You said You are a Teacher, right? What do You teach? What brings You all the way here? The next Jewish town is quite far away.” 

Jesus hums and purses His lips for a moment, giving you a thoughtful yet soft look. “It is not just the Jewish people who are lost in their ways. The Gentiles, too, need to hear about the Kingdom of God.” 

You tilt your head in slight question. “Kingdom of God…?” you query, “What is that? Which deity is it about? Jupiter? Neptune? Mars?” 

Shaking His head, Jesus patiently hums. “No. Adonai. The only true, living God.” 

You bite your lip. It is a bold claim to state that your own gods are dead and untrue, but strangely, you don’t feel the urge to contest it. 

“So do You teach rituals, then? Or auspices?” 

“I teach people how to live in the way that the Father wants His children to live.” 

“So this Adonai you speak of, He has children as well?” 

“Not in the way you are thinking,” Jesus tells you. “Everyone who accepts Him into their heart will be made into a new creation, as a child of God. They will be born again spiritually.” 

You let out a hum. “Huh, that’s… Not what I expected. I thought you Jews had all these rules.” 

“Most of the religious leaders enforce them, yes. But I have come to fulfil the Law, and it will be made complete through Me. Even though this doesn’t mean that the Law is done away with, it is made perfect because of Me.” 

“Because of You? Who are You, then?” 

Jesus turns to His Disciples. “Who do you say I am?” 

“The Messiah promised to us.” Matthew whispers.

Nathanael adds: “The Saviour of the world.” 

“The Son of the living God,” Peter says.

You listen to the answers they give, nodding a little as you try to process it. “So… You are like… A Prophet of sorts?” 

“Not really. I am here to save the people from their sins, that whomever believes in Me, will not be led into eternal damnation, but live through Me.” 

The promise sounds unfamiliar when held against the way things are in your own religion, and you mull it over for a few long moments. “I do not fully understand it,” you say, “But it does sound beautiful.”

“We don’t always understand it, either,” Philip admits, smiling a bit, “But we just trust and follow Him.” 

“We also believe Him because of what He does through His miracles and wonders,” Andrew explains, “He also convinces us Who He is through these signs.” 

You hum and swallow hard. “Miracles… Forgive me for being skeptical, but I do not really believe in these…” 

“Then why don’t you come with us?” Peter asks. The man who had introduced himself as Thomas shrinks a bit right next to him. “Come and see.” 

Your gaze goes through the group as the question hangs in the air. Letting out a small noise of confusion, you aren’t sure what to make of their suggestion, for everyone is watching you with such hope glittering in their gaze that you cannot help but feel inclined to accept, even though you barely know what this is about.

“I… I can’t just run off into the blue whilst my father is out on duty. I can’t leave my sheep alone, I…” 

Your voice trails off when you see the youngest lamb, a newborn ram that hasn’t even let you touch it yet, step into the barn, the hinges creaking as he makes his way through the gap. The tiny sheep beelines straight towards Jesus, climbs into His lap, and nuzzles up. Even its mother doesn’t protest the action, and for a few long moments, your breath is taken away.

“He never does that,” you whisper, “That lamb is so skittish, I can’t even get close to it…” 

Jesus hums and holds it gently, petting it on the head and the tiny animal seems to be appreciative of it. 

“How did You do that?” 

“Nature knows its Maker…” someone in the group mutters, but you aren’t sure who. 

With a sigh of awe, you run a hand down your face, wondering if this must mean something. “He… This is… Well, I wouldn’t say this is a miracle of sorts, but it certainly is special.” Jesus chuckles gently at your admission and gives you a look.

“We would love to have you with us, (Y/n). As you can see, I do not just bring along Jewish students.” He gestures at Tamar. “You are young and have a bright mind. I’m sure your father would understand if you were to travel with us for a while. You don’t have to be with us permanently, you know? I have plenty of followers who live at home.” 

You bite your lip, pondering the idea of being with these people for a while, if only for a few weeks, just to see how these teachings could be of importance to you and how He could change your life. There is little to lose. 

“I will consider it,” you mutter, your mind sinking away in deep thought, as Jesus slowly nods. 

“Of course,” He states, “You have until tomorrow morning, and we might be in the area again some day. Now we know where to find you, yes?” 

You laugh a little at that and nod as you watch one of the flames of the candles flicker steadily in front of you, whilst the group begins to settle down for the night, the stars already out when you feel the chill of night creep through the gaps of the barn.

—

Your tongue sticks to the roof of your mouth when you wake, squinting against the unfamiliar light that slips in through the cracks in the walls, and you sit up groggily, your face covered in hay. You wipe it off, seeing a few of Jesus’ followers already up and having breakfast, whilst a few are still on one ear. 

Yesterday evening comes back to you and you realise you must have fallen asleep before making it back to the house, when Jesus’ voice pulls you out of your thoughts. “Good morning,” He greets gently, and you give Him a bleary smile.

“Good morning,” you say behind a yawn. 

“Barn or not,” Judas says whilst stretching his sore limbs. “I slept like a baby— I meant, like a brick.” 

“You learn fast.” Nathanael says, smirking a bit as he packs his things.

The sheep have made their way outside to graze by themselves and you start getting up, dusting down your tunic in order to get your guests breakfast, but right as you are about to leave the building, the door swings open and reveals a dishevelled looking soldier with horror on his features, the entirety of Jesus’ followers including the Messiah Himself turning to look at him like one being. 

“What is the meaning of this?!” His voice bellows so loudly that it wakes the remainder of the sleeping Disciples. “Who are you, sleeping in my barn?!” 

“Father,” you speak up, and only now, his gaze finds you, softens, but hardens again with anger. 

“Explain this, young lady! What are these strangers doing in our barn?”

You clear your throat, feeling a little embarrassed as you fight the blush on your face. “Well, they were in need of shelter and I couldn’t exactly refuse them.” 

Jesus stands slowly and approaches your father, holding out His hand. “My Name is Jesus,” He says, a flicker of something in the soldier’s eyes as he shakes the outstretched hand. 

“Jesus, You say?” your father mutters, eyeing the Man in front of him up and down. “From where?” 

The Messiah lets out a small chuckle. “Nazareth,” He reveals, and tension seems to visibly leave your father’s shoulders. 

“Oh. In our barn?” 

Your father’s reaction puzzles you. You slowly approach the two. “Do you know Him, Pater? Have you heard of Him?” 

“Yes,” the exhausted guard breathes, “My close friend, who is the Praetor of Capernaum, cannot stop talking about You. He keeps writing to me about You. You saved the life of his son and thus of himself, too.” 

Jesus smiles at Matthew, who stands a little away, his gaze also flickering with familiarity. “Gaius,” the former tax collector says, causing your father to nod eagerly. 

“Yes! Yes, him. You know him, then.”

“He is a good friend of ours.” Jesus states. “Anyways… I was wondering if your daughter here could join us for a while.” 

Your father’s eyes find you, widen a little as he considers the weight of the words. “Join You? For… For how long?” 

“As long as she wants,” Jesus reassures him, “But do not worry. I have plenty of followers who remain home with their other responsibilities. It is, however, important that she witnesses Who I am.” 

A hopeful glimmer enters your father’s (e/c) eyes as he looks at you. “Well, what do you say?” 

You take a sharp breath. “What about the sheep?” 

“I can look after the sheep myself.” 

“And your duty?” 

Your father chuckles and shrugs. “Does that matter? In the light of this, you following Jesus is way more important. Come on. I will help you pack your things. If you say yes, that is. At the end of the day, it should be your own decision.” 

With a growing smile and a warmth inside your chest that spreads everywhere through your body, you take a deep breath and nod eagerly. “Okay! Yes, yes I’d like it very much!” 

A mutter of excitement goes through the group of followers, who are glad to have a new member on their team. Mary comes to stand next to you, putting a hand on your arm.

“Welcome to the group,” she quips happily, and you let out a joyful noise.

Your father gestures you over and pulls you into an embrace before you follow him back to the farmhouse, where you head for your room and begin packing a few essentials. 

“Pater?” you whisper, “Are you truly okay with this?” 

He smiles at you, halting in his actions and turning to face you. “Of course,” he states, “I hold Gaius in high regard and thus I trust him when he says that this Teacher is more than just that. And… You’re almost an adult now. You need to spread your wings. I think it would be good for you.” 

You hum and wrap your arms around him, grateful for the opportunity. Even though you aren’t sure where it will lead you yet, you are glad that your father urges you to go.

“I will miss you, you know?” you murmur, “And the sheep.” 

“I will miss you too, my dear girl,” he whispers inside your hair, kissing the crown of your head. “But write to your old man, alright?” 

You nod, promising him this. “I will,” you say, “I’ll tell you everything that Jesus does. And I will enclose a drawing or two of what I see during my travels.” 

“I’m counting on it,” he states, “Who knows? I might be around in Capernaum some time. If I ask Praetor Gaius if I could stay for a few days, I’m sure he’d be happy to have me over.” 

On that note, you finish packing, and head back outside to join the others, who are already waiting for you. With one last pat on your favourite ewe’s head, you set out on this new adventure.

[leo-muscle]

I’ve heard a little bit about this King Leon guy. Who does he think he is to call himself a king? Seems far to pretentious if you ask me. I wouldn’t be caught dead bowing to someone like that. Not in a million years.

Sure I’m the most basic looking white dude on the planet. My face gets lost in the crowd and my body is light enough to be blown by a breeze. But a king can’t change that, and I would like to see him or any of his subjects try to.

"Are you sure about that?" The bartender told you. You had just arrived on your vacation in Haiti, and the resort's bartender had decided to strike up a conversation with you over drinks. He was enormous, seven feet of pure surfer boy muscle, with a thick gut that was the very picture of strength. He would have been the most beautiful man you had ever seen, if you weren't in the middle of a massive rant.

"Oh, absolutely." You continued. "Whoever these 'kings' are, I don't want anything to do with 'em. Who are they to declare rule over the entire world, and who are we to listen to them?"

It was true, of course. Much of Africa, the British Isles, Central America, and even the islands you were now in had been united under the rule of these Kings. While many praised them for their novel social reforms and exponential increase to quality of life in their domains, many others, yourself included, remained attached to the old ways. Even this vacation was a scouting trip, to see if whatever propaganda these Kings were putting out was true.

"On the contrary, my friend, I am perfectly happy to listen to the rule of my King. You should have seen this island before King Kai came here. Homelessness, poverty... it's all been amended since he arrived."

"Really?" You asked, taking a big swig of your drink, savoring its tingle on your lips. "And NO one's uncomfortable being ruled by just one person?"

"People love King Kai. He is kind and just, like any good king should be. You'll see that soon enough." The bartender said.

"What do you mean by that?" You asked, your heart racing.

"Oh, nothing much. Just give it a few seconds."

"What are you-- UGH!" You doubled over, your skin on fire with a sensation entirely alien to you.

The bartender walked out from behind the bar, and soon, his magical hands went to work. With his kingly essence in your system, you could be molded into a respectable citizen of the world.

He started with your pecs, cupping them from behind as they burst through your tropical shirt with new strength. They were enormous, voluptuous pillows, jiggling with muscle and a thin layer of fat.

He then moved his hands along your shoulders, pumping them into cannonballs of strength. The moment his hands reached your arms, they pulled and pushed, leaving your twiggy biceps and forearms as but a fleeting memory, replacing them with pulsing, powerful cannons of strength. In awe, you flexed your right arm, forming a mound easily as big as a baseball if not more.

You moaned softly as King Kai's beautiful hands lightly traced a six-pack onto your stomach, each ab popping into existence, forming an impenetrable wall of strength.

Soon, his hands navigated south, one massive hand palming your flat ass, while the other grabbed your tiny three-inch cock. You moaned, long, low, and hard as both of his hands began to move out from your body, pulling your cock and ass with them. Your cheeks rounded out into a big, bouncy bubble butt, bigger than most women's. It shook with strength and sexuality with every slight movement you made, much like your cock, which had grown so big with the King's touch that no pair of pants could conceal your enormous bulge. His touch was electric on your shaft, causing you to pre almost endlessly.

Your mind was in heaven as he continued to your legs. Your cock was at full mast at its enormous eleven inches as he took his hands to your legs, and blew them up into corded steel pillars as big as any christmas ham. You moaned, your cock firing blanks as he looked you deep into your eyes, placing one hand to completely cover your currently-unchanged face.

"As much as I love my people, we cannot be a global community if all my citizens are homogenous." King Kai said. "Hmm, where should I send you..."

Your skin flickered through thousands of shades in a single moment, before settling on a tone a few shades darker than your original. Your hair darkened to black, and you instantly sprouted a thick dark mustache, and a chinstrap beard to match. Your eyes became narrower and monolid, your stare intensifying into a sexy smolder. As King Kai leaned in and kissed you, your bulk increased, and your muscle became padded with a thin sexy layer of fat.

"Cum." King Kai commanded you, his voice sexy enough to send you over the edge.

You had been reborn, a Vietnamese stud in the Carribean. Your brain was aflame with new neurons, making connections faster and better than ever before. You knew you had been improved, in every conceivable way. You were stronger, smarter, wiser, and you had no one but your new king to thank.

[gaylordscooter]

Moving in

“lemme get this straight, you already know what we’ve done, haven't you? i read your little journal.”

Blue shifted on his bed, trying to keep eye contact with Sans. “Well, yeah, but I wasn't writing about you three specifically.”

Sans looked disgusted but it wasn't at Blue. “there were others before us.”

Blue couldn't hide the guilt on his face.

“and you don't know where they are anymore. you wanted to help them too, huh?”

He really did. He was just too weak and scared back then, but now he's gotten used to talking to murderers. After all, one of his best friends is one.

It's important not to narrow them down to just that. Of course the idea initially sounds weird. Why would you ever want to show compassion to these guys? Blue formed an answer for that a long time ago.

When their story is scripted, was it really their fault?

He supposed offering a question as an answer wasn't the best thing, but his personal answer to that was “no”. At least, depending on how they act once they're out of their universe. As far as he's concerned, these three haven't caused any significant trouble after they’ve left their universes.

He didn't need all these justifications anyway. Personally, he didn't really care what they’ve done. He's here to help, that's what he does.

“i’m gonna pass on your offer,” he said. “besides, if you plan on helping dusk ‘n killer, you're gonna need your full attention on ‘em. i got papyrus, they got…each other, i guess, but that's doing more harm than good at the moment.” He grimaced.

“Right, okay,” Blue nodded. Sans’s reasoning was sound. He did have a support system opposed to the other two, and monitoring all three of them would probably be too much.

“y’know you might die trying to help them, right?” His tone sounded neutral, as if he was just stating a fact rather than trying to deter him.

“Well, yeah.” Everything he did came with a chance of death. It's a part of having only one HP.

But given everything he has survived, which included his universe literally shattering, he's stopped caring about those chances long ago.

“that's not gonna stop you at all?”

“I wouldn't be here right now if it would—OH SHIT!”

Sans flinched at the sudden increase in volume. “what?!”

Blue’s eyelights shrunk and he stood up from the bed. “Your eye!” he yelled as if that explained anything.

“what about my eye?”

“The other one. Your magic eye, doesn't that keep you alive?” Blue asked.

Sans was taken aback. He hasn't thought about that in a long while. For this guy to know about it…Just how much did this guy know?

And how did he get that information?

Sans decided to look at him like he was crazy rather than responding, which immediately made Blue look nervous.

“...is that not right?”

He sounded like a kid who got a question wrong on a test. As innocent as that sounded on paper, he didn't appreciate that the question in this instance was regarding a personal fact about himself. A personal fact not even Papyrus knew.

“alright,” he adjusted his posture on the stool to lean closer to him, “how do you know all this stuff about us?”

Just like he wanted, the gesture seemed to intimidate him. He sat up straight on his bed, but he didn't lean back as if showing weakness would make him lunge at the other.

Blue tugged on his scarf. “Okay, I know it sounds suspicious, but a friend of mine told me all about you guys.”

He narrowed his sockets, “a friend?”

“Oof, okay, you want the full explanation?”

The look on Sans’s face was enough to usher him to continue.

Blue sighed. “So the friend I’m talking about is Ink, you've seen him a few times.” He lowered his voice as he continued. “he kinda doesn't like me talking about him to other people, but you are entitled to a proper explanation. he kinda knows everything about the multiverse and sometimes he tells me about it.”

The whole thing sounded like complete bullshit, but with how Blue’s been acting this entire time he felt inclined to believe it. How else would he know? Stalking them? He isn't even from the same universe as them.

With that being said.

“and how the hell does ink get all this information?”

Blue cleared his throat, “uhhh. i’m not actually sure. he just kinda. Knows. Automatically. i can point at someone and he’ll be able to identify their universe and backstory immediately.”

It felt like there was something Blue wasn't telling him with how vague he was being. Internally he took note of how he used the word “backstory” to describe one's past. As if he were talking about people like they were characters.

Sans didn't think anyone should have as much knowledge as Ink. Bad things can come out of someone knowing all of the answers.

They might start digging for more mysteries, consequences be damned, just to satiate their curiosity.

But Blue’s concerns right now were elsewhere.

“So anyway, about your eye. An entity called Error destroyed your universe and displaced everyone to The Hub. So everything left, including your eye, is probably in his labyrinth right now.”

He proceeded to ramble on about “Error” and the labyrinth that resided in a place called the antivoid.

What Sans understood was that his eye was in a near-inaccessible place and could be destroyed the longer it stayed there. So really it isn't any different from it being in the queen’s possession.

Despite Blue’s long explanation that hardly anyone has been able to get something out of the labyrinth unscathed, he insisted he was going to get his eye out from that place. By himself.

Sans was not gonna let this guy just recklessly risk his life like that just to save his own.

“It's fine! I've been there before. I’m sure I can get it back safely with the right planning,” he insisted.

“because your plan to rescue that skeleton from that freak went so smoothly,” he retorted.

“sending you three wasn't my plan.”

“sending that army of whatever those things were was your plan, though.”

“They're called Blueberries and that wasn't my initial plan either!” Blue crossed his arms, “besides, it did get everyone out relatively safely even though I hardly had time to think of it.”

Those “blueberries” were a good distraction, he’ll give him that, but he still wasn't sure this guy would be able to pull off retrieving his eye from what was essentially described as a multiversal garbage dump—plan or not.

“hang on, why doesn't ink just get it instead? isn't he a lot more capable?”

Blue looked at him like he told him pigs could fly. “No,” he answered succinctly. “Anyway, I’ll probably get it back in a week. It shouldn't be destroyed by then.”

The “probably” and “shouldn't” was real comforting.

He went on to change the subject as if the topic at hand was casual small talk.

“So you wanted to move into a house with just you and your brother, right?”

After they had that talk he sent Dusk over to Blue. He was curious how his conversation would go with him, considering Dusk hardly talked. The only person he consistently spoke to at this point was Killer.

To be fair the only other people he could talk to was him and Nightmare. Of course he wasn't going to talk to Nightmare and he could just sign whenever he was with Sans. Maybe things will be different with more people around.

Yeah right.

Speaking of Killer, he was out like a light at the moment. Even after he ate and was healed by Dusk, he still felt sleepy enough to take a nap. He didn't know how exactly those flowers from Fresh worked, but he assumed they could leech off of a monster’s magic, which is why it would knock out a monster like Killer—he was used to having a lot of magic in his system. Suddenly losing a lot wasn't exactly fatal for him but it confuses the body.

Or something like that, he wasn't a biologist.

Dusk was pretty loopy too after their first encounter with Fresh, but he was loopy all the time so it was hard to tell there was a difference.

Those two…he wouldn't have guessed they'd end up the way they were now. From day one those two seemed to loathe each other. Every day he wondered if one of them would finally kill the other. The fights they had would tear up parts of the forest. He watched them, at first out of some sick curiosity, but later on it was to call an end to the fight whenever they got too carried away.

But then there was that night where Nightmare gave them a blunt, probably curious to see how it would go down.

Well, he sure hoped sparking a relationship between those two was what he wanted.

Even without the weed affecting him, that night was a trip. Two murderous self-loathing alternate versions of himself clinking teeth couldn't be topped by any hallucination.

Killer stirred, finally waking up. He was still incredibly groggy. He explained to him that they were talking to Blue to sort out their living situations.

Dusk came in through the hallway shortly after, acting fairly cold towards Killer as if he wasn't watching over him and waiting for him to wake up moments ago.

Sans had a hunch he talked about Killer with Blue.

The hunch turned out to be right as he had a little chat with Dusk. They were going to live apart. That was good. Spending some time apart could make them less clingy to each other.

But the conversation between the two proved that being apart was gonna be harder than Dusk thought it would be. He retreated to the hallway where Blue apparently was standing too.

He was either eavesdropping or was on his way to the living room before he heard the arguing start.

He was generous enough to think it was the latter.

Blue looked back to his room, probably debating whether or not to go back. 

And then they heard Dusk shout that he loves Killer. The two winced. Sans even heard Blue shout-whisper a “WHY would he say that now?”

Too stunned to even move, the conversation was over before they knew it.

The silence was incredibly loud.

Blue gave Sans an uncertain look, straightened himself out, and finally walked down the hall.

Despite the silent tension between Killer and Dusk, Blue managed to act like everything was normal.

Even though he was the only one that was talking at this point.

Moments later, Ink dropped by to take them to the Hub. Sans spared a glare at him, which he did not miss. He said nothing, but childishly stuck his tongue out at him. Which was a thing some skeletons apparently had.

They dropped off Killer first. Sans grabbed him by his sleeve to lead him over to his room. He looked completely empty as he clung onto Dusk in a last-ditch effort to keep him here.

It was weird seeing the normally chatty skeleton look so dead.

Was this really the same monster that called his relationship with Dusk an “inside joke”?

He couldn't help but feel a little worried about him being alone.

Next, Blue took him and Dusk to their new homes. He had no idea how they were built so quickly—at least it seemed like it was newly built, he swore those houses weren't standing there before.

Their houses were right next to each other and were only about a block away from the hotel Killer was staying at. It was convenient, if those two wanted to keep in touch.

“cya around,” he told Dusk.

Dusk gave him a thumbs up in response as they parted ways.

When he entered his new home, he was surprised to see that Papyrus had already started settling in.

There were many open boxes on the carpet of the entry room, all but one empty.

“sup, bro.”

Papyrus looked so giddy with joy, it was nice to see him like this again. He paused his unpacking to waltz over to Sans. “SANS, ISN’T IT AMAZING? OUR VERY OWN HOUSE WITH POWER! THIS ISN’T HOW I EXPECTED OUR LIVES TO GO, BUT, I’M GLAD EVERYTHING TURNED OUT FINE.”

“yeah.” It was intimidating, how “normal” their life has suddenly become.

All the unspoken words and secrets clung to his back. He never planned on telling Papyrus, or anyone, about what he's done. There wasn't any reason to, not when they were just trying to survive.

But now, now he felt the sense that he was obligated to.

Even though the blood stains were washed off his bones and teeth, they were still crooked, and his eye sockets had sunken in ways only Sans’s should.

Granted, people wouldn't know that was because he ate human meat, but they'd still know he'd gone through a rough time.

He was so happy right now. There was no need to tell him right now. There's no rush.

He thought back to that encounter with a different Papyrus back at Nightmare's place.

“You hid what happened from your brother didn't you?”

He read him like a book, and it wasn't even his Papyrus. Would that mean Papyrus knew he was hiding something?

Back then he was too distracted by the fact he told everyone to start eating humans to even question anything about his injury.

He thought about how his eye was currently at even more risk than it initially was. He didn't really feel scared or worried about dying. A part of him might even accept it.

But if that's the case, why did he fight so hard to survive?

Why didn't he just give up back then? His life wasn't worth all the shit he's put everyone through.

Of course back then, all he thought about was the betrayal. He was blinded by his anger.

“ARE YOU ALRIGHT, SANS?” Papyrus asked.

Sans didn't realize he was just standing there and glaring at nothing for a little while. He relaxed his face. “yeah, it's just, surreal that we're here right now.”

“HONESTLY I DIDN’T EXPECT TO BE IN A BRAND NEW AREA WITH A BRAND NEW HOUSE EITHER. IT’S PRETTY WEIRD!”

Something about the cadence of Papyrus’s voice was off when he said that. He looked happy, sure, but something about the sound of his voice felt forced. 

“what about you?”

Papyrus closed his mouth and looked at him as if he didn't hear. While his hearing was pretty bad at this point, which is part of the reason he learned sign language, in a silent room like this he knew he definitely heard his question.

Still, he repeated his question, “how are you doing?”

Papyrus's happy demeanor cracked as he lowered his smile. “I’M NOT QUITE SURE…WHAT YOU MEAN BY THAT QUESTION. OF COURSE I’M DOING GREAT!” His smile returned but it felt fake.

“uh—”

“WE HAVE POWER, A COMFORTABLE HOME, WE’RE TOGETHER AGAIN AFTER YOU MYSTERIOUSLY WENT MISSING FOR A WHOLE YEAR. WHAT’S NOT TO BE HAPPY ABOUT?”

There was something in the tone of his voice that Sans had a hard time pinning down at first and then Papyrus continued.

“EVERYONE WHO SURVIVED IS SAFE NOW. WE HAVE FOOD THAT ISN’T HUMAN MEAT. AND THERE’S NEW FACES TO MEET!”

Papyrus leveled with Sans, kneeling down and grabbing his shoulders.

Sans swore his tired eye sockets looked at him with desperation. Desperation to just, go back to normal. To go back to being The Great Papyrus.

The Great Papyrus that didn't hunt any humans for food, that didn't get unnerved by his brother, that didn't get scared of Undyne.

The Great Papyrus that had hope for the future.

No, he still had hope. It was just. Hard. To hold onto it.

Especially when it felt more like denial at this point.

“Are you sure you're alright, Sans?” Papyrus asked, quieter this time.

He looked closer at Papyrus’s face. No, he imagined all that desperation. That smile wasn't plastic, it was real. Papyrus was doing fine—maybe not “great” like he said but that desperation to go back to normal wasn't Papyrus’s.

Sans sighed, “i’m getting there.”

Papyrus frowned. “Why do you do that?”

He blinked, “do what?”

“Ever since you've gotten back you act WEIRD when someone says your name.”

He does? “huh?”

“YEAH, AT FIRST YOU DIDN’T REALLY RESPOND AT ALL TO IT, BUT NOW YOU FLINCH.”

He knew he was pretty unresponsive at first whenever someone called his name. For a whole year he was referred to as “Horror”. He had to get used to being called Sans again, but he didn't realize he flinched now. Does he do that when Killer calls him Sans too? Does he notice?

The thought made him sick. Was he really so used to that demeaning name Nightmare gave him that he reacted weirdly to his real name?

His name is not Horror.

get that through your skull. that should be easy considering the hole in it.

He hasn't told Papyrus or the others much about where he's been for the past year. He didn't feel ready to. Then again, he never felt ready to explain anything.

Some things don't change.

Papyrus sighed, taking his silence as reluctance to answer. “WELL I’M GOING TO SET UP YOUR ROOM NOW. SOME OF YOUR STUFF IS STILL AT THE OTHER HOUSE. GO TALK TO TORIEL SHE HAS YOUR STUFF PACKED.”

“oh, uh. alright.” He said a quick bye as Papyrus turned around, picked up a box and went over to where his room apparently was. Only one floor in this house, that's gonna be weird to get used to.

Nightmare's castle was also weird to get used to, but like hell would he call that place a home.

Welp, he should go get his things now.

He left the house. He spared a glance at Dusk’s new house. It looked smaller than his. Maybe there were fewer rooms since only he lived there.

He could see that the lights were off through the windows. Maybe he was sleeping, or out.

He made his way over to the house Toriel was staying at.

When he first arrived there, it felt like everything went back to normal immediately. It was almost like he didn't leave at all, but that was a temporary front. They can't just ignore his disappearance and everything that happened in between.

Even though Sans wanted to.

As he walked over to the house, he noticed two monsters standing on the doorstep from a distance. As he got closer, he recognized the two as alternate versions of him and Papyrus.

They were holding baskets of vegetables. That, along with their clothing and hats, gave off the impression they were farmers.

He felt awkward as he walked up behind them and interrupted whatever this was.

Thankfully it was Toriel they were talking to and she noticed him immediately. “Greetings, Sans! You are here to pick up the rest of your things, I presume?”

“yup,” he said. He couldn't help but eye the two skeletons here.

They turned around to look at him the moment Toriel acknowledged him. He wasn't wearing a hat right now so his head injury was on clear display for them to gawk at. To their credit, they managed to keep their expressions the same, but he knew they were probably wincing internally.

“Oh, you have not met these two yet! They are the local farmers, they hand out baskets of their produce every week.”

Right after she said that, the shorter skeleton handed her the basket he was holding. “yup, and they're cultivated by yours truly,” he said.

The taller skeleton scoffed, “HARDLY! ALL YOU DO IS SIT OR STAND BY THE CROPS AND JUST WATCH THEM GROW.”

“i scare the crows away.”

“THERE AREN’T EVEN ANY CROWS THAT LIVE THERE!” he countered.

The shorter skeleton’s sockets curled up in amusement. “i’m doing a really good job then.”

His brother shouted a protest that he shrugged off, and then his eyelights were back on Sans. “anyway, the name’s sans, but you can just call me ‘suman’ to avoid confusion. and you can call the tall one ‘pompano’.”

“STOP TELLING PEOPLE TO CALL ME A TYPE OF FISH!”

“but it's your favorite fish.”

“Pompano” frowned and rolled his eye sockets. “THAT ISN’T EVEN TRUE. YOU JUST CHOSE THAT WORD BECAUSE IT STARTS WITH A ‘P’ AND HAS THE SAME AMOUNT OF SYLLABLES AS ‘PAPYRUS’.”

“oh yeah.” Suman paused for a moment. “so, you’ll probably be seeing us around from time to time today. we got a lotta deliveries to make.”

“OF COURSE, YOUR HOUSE IS INCLUDED TOO!” Pompano piped. He gave him a smile before he turned to his brother. “THAT’S ENOUGH DAWDLING FOR NOW. I WOULD LIKE TO BE HOME BEFORE THE SUN SETS BACK AT OUR PLACE. THE CHICKENS NEED THEIR BEDTIME STORY!” 

“right, the chickens.”

“YES!”

“what about the cows, sheep, ducks—”

“OH THEY’LL BE FINE!”

“i’m just sensing some favoritism here.”

“PREPOSTEROUS.” Pompano already started walking away from the house.

Suman gave a quick wave to Toriel and Sans before following after him.

Toriel giggled as the two skeletons continued their banter in the distance. Then she looked back at Sans. “I apologize for the delay. I shall get the rest of your things now.” She turned around and walked back into her house.

Sans couldn't help but feel affected by seeing those two skeletons. He thought he was used to seeing alternate versions of himself and others by now but those two…they reminded him of how he used to be. How he and Papyrus used to be.

The teasing remarks. The light banter. The happiness they brought each other.

Of course Papyrus still brought him happiness, that was a given, but.

He doubted he made Papyrus happy.

Toriel returned a moment later, box in hand. She handed it over to him. “Your brother has already moved most of your stuff in, this should be the rest of it.”

The box was pretty small and light. What it held, he had no idea. Honestly, he was surprised he even had enough stuff for there to be box-fulls of it, and all of it was stuff Papyrus brought.

And they moved before Papyrus knew he was alive.

At this point he wouldn't be surprised if guilt killed him before his eye was destroyed.

He bid Toriel farewell and went back home. Again, he spared a glance to Dusk’s place before going to his house. The lights were still off but a basket of vegetables was left by the front door.

He sighed and entered his new house.

He saw Papyrus in the kitchen, stocking the fridge with vegetables. Those farmer brothers were fast, he didn't even see them walking away from the house.

“hey bro. got my stuff.”

He moved his head out of the fridge to look at him with a smile. “WONDERFUL! YOU CAN FINISH UP UNPACKING AND WE’LL FINALLY BE SETTLED IN.”

“sure thing.” He walked over to the living room where the doors to their rooms were located. Thankfully, Papyrus already had his “PAPYRUS ALLOWED” sign hung on his door so it was easy to figure out which room was his.

He entered his room. It was weird to think of it as his room when it looked so different from his old one (and the one at Nightmare's castle). The walls, like the rest of the house, were a light yellow, while the ground was composed of wooden floorboards.

There was a bed situated in one of the corners of the room. A proper bed for once, not just some mattress on the ground. The sheets and pillow case were a light green. Honestly, he wouldn't have minded if the room was just a plain white or beige. Maybe he’d prefer it, even, because it felt like the room itself was a “be happy” sign.

Or maybe he just wasn't used to a room looking so…homey.

He set the box down on a chair and opened it. He didn't know what would be in here, but he didn't expect it to be stuff from his lab. Immediately he reached out to the first thing he saw, his photo album.

Geez, he hasn't seen this in a long time. He lost the key to the lab awhile ago—he lost the key. How did they get this?!

Waving away the nostalgia the album gave him, he set it down and rushed out of his room.

The second he spotted Papyrus he spat out his question.

“papyrus, how did you get the stuff from the lab? we lost the key ages ago.”

Papyrus closed the fridge and turned around. “YOU DIDN’T LOSE THE KEY, YOU GAVE IT TO THE HUMAN.”

“human? which—why would i give it to a human?”

He scoffed, “WHEN YOU PRANKED THEM, REMEMBER? YOU HAD SECRET CODEWORDS AND EVERYTHING.”

Sans’s mind was drawing a blank. It took a few to realize which human he was even talking about. The one that killed Asgore and a lot of other monsters. The anomaly. That human.

The only reason he remembered them now was because Dusk mentioned them from time to time. It was funny. They used to be a huge problem in his life but now he could hardly remember what they looked like.

“how’d you get it back, then? they never came back.”

“WELL, INTERESTING STORY, ACTUALLY—”

“no way.” He was already narrowing his sockets.

“DO NOT MAKE PREMATURE ASSUMPTIONS!” He paused, waiting for him to respond.

He rolled his eye. “okay. i won’t.”

“THE HUMAN SHOWED BACK UP.”

He stared at Papyrus in stunned silence. That didn't make any sense. Why would they come back after that long?

“BUT NOW THAT I THINK ABOUT IT, THEY LOOKED THE EXACT SAME?? THEY SHOULD’VE LOOKED DIFFERENT. HUMANS GROW OLDER, RIGHT? AND THEY DIDN’T EVEN STICK AROUND. THEY JUST HANDED ME THE KEY TO THE LAB AND TOOK YOUR PHONE BEFORE DISAPPEARING.”

“took my phone?” Sans’s sockets widened. “....”

Oh god no.

“that asshole can shapeshift?” he muttered under his breath.

He could impersonate people. He could be anyone at any time. How can he be sure he's not someone here?

Is this part of his torment too? Of course they weren't free from him; of course there was a catch. He should've known.

He's not safe here.

“SANS? WHAT’S WRONG?”

Papyrus’s hands were on his shoulders.

“i—” Sans pushed down his instinct to deflect. He sighed, “i need to tell you about where i’ve been this past year.”

[allwaswell16]

[4 pics, 4 quotes, 4 iconic 1D fics]

Iconic fics by ...

- p h d m a m a -

[1]

“Mom, he’s the only man I’ve ever loved. I’m not sure I can love anyone else the way I loved him, and no one has ever loved me better, at least, not while it was good.”

“No one’s ever hurt you that badly either, Harry,” his mother reminds him gently.

“I know. But when it was good, it was really good. I know we were young, but it was true love, Mom. It was real. And maybe, it could be that way again.”

“Kintsugi,” says Greg from the doorway, where he’s holding the squirming puppy.

All three heads in the kitchen whip around to look at him.

“What?” asks Gemma, getting up to grab the pup and give him a kiss.

“Kintsugi, it’s a traditional Japanese art form. When a piece of pottery was broken, they’d repair it with gold, to make something beautiful out of the broken pieces.” He shrugs. “Sounds like what Harry’s talking about.”

[2]

“Manscaping, you bloom ‘em, we groom ‘em. How can I help you?”

“Oh, uh,” Harry stutters, caught completely off-guard. “Oh shit, sorry, I was expecting a voicemail.”

“Well, you caught me between clients, man. How can I help? Got some hedges running wild?”

Oh my. Harry hadn’t expected that the groomer would be quite so...straight forward, but he supposes that when you’re in the business, you become very comfortable with tackling things head on, as it were.

“Uh yeah, very unruly,” he says ruefully, picturing the disaster scene he’d scrubbed down that morning.

“Is this an emergency?” The voice asks, “Like, the in-laws coming tomorrow sort of thing?”

Harry frowns. “Oh no, nothing like that,” he says finally, wondering what sort of marital relationship this gentleman has. “I’m just, you know, getting back out on the scene, want everything to be nice and neat.”

“Of course,” the voice says approvingly, “Don’t we all.”

[3]

“That’s a beautiful wand, Harry,” Liam chimes in and Harry flushes.

He’d seen Liam’s wand earlier, and it’s as magnificent as Zayn’s, made of teak, Liam had mentioned, inlaid with a mother-of-pearl floral motif, and with a huge, grass-green, clear emerald at the tip. Harry fears his own serviceable carved oak pales in comparison, but smiles his thanks.

“It’s served me well over the years,” he says, “I got it all polished up for the trip.”

He hears Louis choke on his wine a little, who then says, “Oh, really? Got it all polished, nice and special?”

Harry frowns, “Yeah, there’s a guy in Harvard Square I go to, he always does a good job,” and when Louis snickers into his drink, Harry realizes what he’s insinuating.

“Really? Wand polishing jokes? What are you, twelve?” And with that, the entire table, minus Harry, bursts out laughing while Harry sulks into his wine.

[4]

He mindlessly clicks through, sending friend requests to Zayn’s dad and sister, Liam’s mom, Cal’s mom (who’s known him since he was in diapers), and Mrs. Anderson, his old music teacher from middle school. Then the profile of a guy named Ed Twist pops up. Louis frowns, staring at the ceiling, wondering who this is. He assumes they’ve got some sort of connection, otherwise Facebook wouldn’t have offered him to Louis, and with a name like that, he’s probably an old dude. Maybe he’s a friend of Mrs. Anderson? His profile is pretty locked down, when Louis goes to look, all his photos are on private. The guy’s profile picture is of a henna tattooed hand playing the guitar, his banner is a rainbow flag, and there are a few generic posts supporting liberal causes. Huh. So maybe he’s gay, maybe he’s into music, and apparently he’s a liberal. Louis likes all those things, being gay and making music and supporting liberal causes, so without overthinking it, he clicks the “send a friend request” button.

Answers below...

[1] Feels Like Coming Home

The last thing Harry Styles expects when he's hanging out at the Someday Cafe in Somerville one rainy October day is for his ex, Louis Tomlinson to walk through the door, but that's exactly what happens. After a spectacularly ugly break-up three years prior, Harry hasn't heard one word from Louis, and he's moved on. Gotten over him. But having Louis back in his life, not to mention working at the restaurant where he's a chef, isn't easy, and the feelings that Harry thought he'd left turn out to be not so easily forgotten.

This is a story about love and the power of forgiveness, and how the hard choices we make define us, and change our lives.

[2] On the Go

From this post because I could not resist:

ok so i saw a truck today and i thought it said MANSCAPE but it actually said MAINSCAPE and it was a landscaping company. but then i thought LARRY AU. where louis owns a landscaping company called MANSCAPE and harry thinks it’s some sort of in-home pubic hair grooming company, so he calls to make an appointment, there’s some discussion of whether he wants his bushes trimmed as well, and then when it’s time for the appointment, harry’s like half-naked waiting around in a robe or something and louis shows up with lawnmowers. 

[3] It's a Better Place (Since You Came Along)

When Harry Styles, a mid-level talent, Finder, and small business owner, sets off on the vacation of a lifetime with his best friend, Niall Horan, he has no idea the changes his life will undergo over the next nine days. He's got it all planned - there's going to be shore excursions, lounging by the pool on the deck of the luxurious cruise ship, not to mention margaritas. What he does not plan for are the new friends, new bonds, or the mystery from his past that comes back to haunt him, and he certainly hasn't planned for Louis.

[4] Friend Request

This was written for Kassio as a pinch hit for the HL Summer Exchange, from the prompt: " Louis is bored on Facebook and in the “People you may know” suggestions, he sees the name Harry Styles. The profile picture doesn't show the person. He thinks it's an old family friend who he misses – maybe a middle-aged or elderly former neighbor or babysitter who he was fond of as a child - and sends a friend request. Turns out it's not old man Harry from their old neighborhood, it's hot young Harry (who he's never met before) who accepts his friend request..."

[canmom]

Music Theory Notes (for science bitches) 1: chords & such

This is one of these series where I use my blog as a kind of study blog type thing. If you're knowledgeable about music theory, it will be very basic. But that's kind of the problem, I've really struggled to absorb those basics!

When I was a teenager I learned to play violin and played in orchestras. I could read music, and play decently enough, but I didn't really understand music. I just read what was on the page, and played the scales I had to play for exams.

Lately I've been trying to learn music again. This time my instruments are zhonghu, voice, and DAWs. At some point I might get my violin back too. But really, I'm a total beginner again, and this time I want to do it properly.

For a long time when I tried to learn about music I would get overwhelmed with terminology and jargon and conventions. I might watch videos on composition and they'd be interesting but a lot of it would just fly over my head, I'd just have to nod along because I had no idea what all the different types of chord and such were. I tried to learn from sites like musictheory.net, but I found it hard to figure out the logical structure to fit it all into.

I feel like I'm finally making a bit of headway, so it's time to take some notes. The idea here is not just to answer the what, but also to give some sense of why, a motivation. So in a sense this is a first attempt at writing the introduction to music theory I wish I'd had. This is going to assume you know a little bit about physics, but basically nothing about music.

What is music? From first principles.

This is impossible to answer in full generality, especially since as certain people would be quick to remind me, there's a whole corner of avant-garde composers who will cook up counterexamples to whatever claim you make. So let's narrow our focus: I'm talking about the 'most common' type of music in the society I inhabit, which is called 'tonal music'. (However some observations may be relevant to other types of music such as noise or purely rhythmic music.)

Music is generally an art form involving arranging sound waves in time into patterns (in the sense that illustration is about creating patterns on a 2D surface with light, animation is arranging illustrations in time, etc.).

Physically, sound is a pressure wave propagating through a medium, primarily air. As sound waves propagate, they will reflect off surfaces and go into superposition, and depending on the materials around, certain frequencies might be attenuated or amplified. So the way sound waves propagate in a space is very complicated!

But in general we've found we can pretty decently approximate the experience of listening to something using one or two 'audio tracks', which are played back at just one or two points. So for the sake of making headway, we will make an approximation: rather than worry about the entire sound field, we're going to talk about a one-dimensional function of time, namely the pressure at the idealised audio source. This is what gets displayed inside an audio editor. For example, here's me playing the zhonghu, recorded on a mic, as seen inside Audacity.

A wrinkle that is not relevant for this discussion: The idealised 'pressure wave' is a continuous real function of the reals (time to pressure). By contrast, computer audio is quantised in both the pressure level and time, and this is used to reconstruct a continuous pressure wave by convolution at playback time. (Just like a pixel is not a little square, an audio sample is not a constant pressure!) But I'm going to talk about real numbers until quantisation becomes relevant.

When the human eye receives light, the cone cells in the eye respond to the frequencies of EM radiation, creating just three different neural signals, but with incredibly high sensitivity to direction. By contrast, when the human ear receives sound, it is directed into an organ called the cochlea which is kind of like a cone rolled up into a spiral...

Inside this organ, the sound wave moves around the spiral, which has a fascinatingly complex structure that means different frequencies of wave will excite tiny hairs at different points along the tube. In effect, the cochlea performs a short-time Fourier transform of the incoming sound wave. Information about the direction of the incoming wave is given by the way it reflects off the shape of the ear, the difference between ears, and the movement of our head.

So! In contrast to light, where the brain receives a huge amount of information about directions of incoming light but only limited information of the frequency spectrum, with sound we receive a huge amount of information about the frequency spectrum but only quite limited information about its direction.

Music thus generally involves creating patterns with vibration frequencies in the sound wave. More than this, it's also generally about creating repeating patterns on a longer timescale, which is known as rhythm. This has something to do with the way neurons respond to signals but that's something I'm not well-versed in, and in any case it is heavily culturally mediated.

All right, so, this is the medium we have to play with. When we analyse an audio signal that represents music, we chop it up into small windows, and use a Fourier transform to find out the 'frequencies that are present in the signal'.

Most musical instruments are designed to make sounds that are combinations of certain frequencies at integer ratios. For example here is a plot of the [discrete] Fourier transform of a note played on the zhonghu:

The intensity of the signal is written in decibels, so it's actually a logarithmic scale despite looking linear. The frequency of the wave is written in Hertz, and plotted logarithmically as well. A pure sine wave would look like a thin vertical line; a slightly wider spike means it's a combination of a bunch of sine waves of very close frequencies.

The signal consists of one strong peak at 397Hz and nearby frequencies, and a series of peaks at (roughly) integer multiples of this frequency. In this case the second and third peaks are measured at 786Hz, and 1176Hz. Exact integer ratios would give us 794Hz and 1191Hz, but because the first peak is quite wide we'd expect there to be some error.

Some terminology: The first peak is called the fundamental, and the remaining peaks are known as overtones. The frequency of the fundamental is what defines this signal as a particular musical note, and the intensities of the overtone and widths of the peaks define the quality of the note - the thing that makes a flute and a violin playing the same fundamental frequency sound different when we listen to them. If you played two different notes at the same time, you'd get the spectrums of both notes added together - each note has its own fundamental and overtones.

OK, so far that's just basic audio analysis, nothing is specific to music. To go further we need to start imposing some kind of logical structure on the sound, defining relationships between the different notes.

The twelve-tone music system

There are many ways to do this, but in the West, one specific system has evolved as a kind of 'common language' that the vast majority of music is written in. As a language, it gives names to the notes, and defines a space of emotional connotations. We unconsciously learn this language as we go through the process of socialisation, just as we learn to interpret pictures, watch films, etc.

The system I'm about to outline is known as 12-tone equal temperament or "12TET". It was first cooked up in the 16th century almost simultaneously in China and Europe, but it truly became the standard tuning in the West around the 18th century, distilled from a hodgepodge of musical systems in use previously. In the 20th century, classical composers became rather bored of it and started experimenting with other systems of tonality. Nevertheless, it's the system used for the vast majority of popular music, film and game soundtracks, etc.

Other systems exist, just as complex. Western music tends to create scales of seven notes in an octave, but there are variants that use other amounts, like 6. And for example classical Indian music uses its own variant of a seven-note scale; there are also nuances within Western music such as 'just intonation' which we'll discuss in a bit; really, everything in music is really fucking complicated!

I'll be primarily discussing 12TET because 1. it's hard enough to understand just one system and this one is the most accessible; 2. this has a very nice mathematical structure which tickles my autismbrain. However, along the way we'll visit some variants, such as 'Pythagorean intervals'.

The goal is to try and not just say 'this is what the notation means' but explain why we might construct music this way. Since a lot of musical stuff is kept around for historical reasons, that will require some detours into history.

Octaves

So, what's the big idea here? Well, let's start with the idea of an octave. If you have two notes, let's call then M and N, and the frequency of N is twice the frequency of M... well, to the human ear, they sound very very closely related. In fact N is the first overtone of M - if you play M on almost any instrument, you're also hearing N.

Harmony, which we'll talk about in a minute, is the idea that two notes sound especially pleasant together - but this goes even further. So in many many music systems around the world, these two notes with frequency ratio of 2 are actually identified - they are in some sense 'the same note', and they're given the same name. This also means that further powers of 2, of e.g. 4, 8, 16, and so on, are also 'the same note'. We call the relationship between M and N an octave - we say if two notes are 'an octave apart', one has twice the frequency of the other.

For example, a note whose fundamental frequency is 261.626Hz is known as 'C' in the convention of 'concert pitch'. This implies an infinite series of other Cs, but since the human ear has a limited range of frequencies, in practice you have Cs from 8.176Hz up through 16744.036. These are given a series of numbers by convention, so 261.626Hz is called C4, often 'middle C'. 523.251Hz is C5, 1046.502Hz is C6, and so on. However, a lot of the time it doesn't matter which C you're talking about, so you just say 'C'.

But the identification of "C" with 261.626Hz * 2^N is just a convention (known as 'concert pitch'). Nothing is stopping you tuning to any other frequency: to build up the rest of the structure you just need some note to start with, and the rest unfolds using ratios.

Harmony and intervals

Music is less about individual notes, and more about the relationship between notes - either notes played at the same time, or in succession.

Between any two notes we have something called an interval determined by the ratio of their fundamental frequencies. We've already seen one interval: the octave, which has ratio 2.

The next interval to bring up is the 'fifth'. There are a few different variants of this idea, but generally speaking if two notes have a ratio of 1.5, they sound really really nice together. Why is this called a 'fifth'? Historical reasons, there is no way to shake this terminology, we're stuck with it. Just bear with me here, it will become semi-clear in a minute.

In the same vein, other ratios of small integers tend to sound 'harmonious'. They're satisfying to hear together. Ratios of larger integers, by contrast, feel unsatisfying. But this creates an idea of 'tension' and 'resolution'. If you play two notes together that don't harmonise as nicely, you create a feeling of expectation and tension; when you you play some notes that harmonise really well, that 'resolves' the tension and creates a sense of relief.

Building a scale - just intonation

The exact 3:2 integer ratio used in two tuning systems called 'Pythagorean tuning' and 'just intonation'. Using these kinds of integer ratios, you can unfold out a whole series of other notes, and that's how the Europeans generally did things before 12TET came along. For example, in 'just intonation', you might start with some frequency, and then procede in the ratios 9/8, 5/4, 4/3, 3/2, 5/3, 15/8, and at last 2 (the octave). These would be given a series of letters, creating a 'scale'.

What is a scale? A scale is something like the 'colour palette' for a piece of music. It's a set of notes you use. You might use notes from outside the scale but only very occasionally. Different scales are associated with different feelings - for example, the 'major scale' generally feels happy and triumphant, while a 'minor scale' tends to feel sad and forlorn. We'll talk a lot more about scales soon.

In the European musical tradition, a 'scale' consists of seven notes in each octave, so the notes are named by the first seven notes of the alphabet, i.e. A B C D E F G. A scale has a 'base note', and then you'd unfold the other frequencies using the ratios. An instrument such as a piano would be tuned to play a particular scale. The ratios above are one definition of a 'major scale', and starting with C as the base note, the resulting set of notes is called 'C Major'.

All these nice small-number ratios tend to sound really good together. But it becomes rather tricky if you want to play multiple scales on the same instrument. For example, say your piano is tuned in just intonation to C Major. This means, assuming you have a starting frequency we'll call C, you have the following notes available in a given octave:

C, D=(9/8)C, E=(5/4)C, F=(4/3)C, G=(3/2)C [the fifth!], A=(5/3)C, B=(15/8)C, and 2C [the start of the next octave].

Note: the interval we named the 'fifth' is the fifth note in this scale. It's actually the fifth note in the various minor scales too.

But now suppose you want to play with some different notes - let's say a scale we'll call 'A major', which has the same frequency ratios starting on the note we previously called A. Does our piano have the right keys to play this scale?

Well, the next note up from A would be (9/8)A, which would be (9/8)(5/3)C=(15/8)C - that's our B key, so far so good. Then (5/4)A=(5/4)(5/3)C=(25/12)C and... uh oh! We don't have a (25/12)C key, we have 2C, so if we start at A and go up two keys, we have a note that is slightly lower frequency than the one we're looking for.

What this means is that, depending on your tuning, you could only approximate the pretty integer ratios for any scale besides C major. (25/12) is pretty close to 2, so that might not seem so bad, but sometimes we'd land right in between two notes. We can approximate these notes by adding some more 'in between' piano keys. How should we work out what 'extra' keys to include? Well, there were multiple conventions, but we'll see there is some logic to it...

[You might ask, why are you spending so long on this historical system that is now considered obsolete? Well, intervals and their harmonious qualities are still really important in modern music, and it makes most sense to introduce them with the idea of 'small-integer ratios'.]

The semitone

We've seen if we build the 'major scale' using a bunch of 'nice' ratios, we have trouble playing other scales. The gap above may look rather haphazard and arbitrary, but hold on, we're working in exponential space here - shouldn't we be using a logarithmic scale? If I switch to a logarithmic x-axis, we suddenly get a rather appealing pattern...

All the gaps between successive notes are about the same size, except for the gap between E and F, and B and C, which are about half that size. If you try to work that out exactly, you run into the problems we saw above, where C to D is 9/8 or 1.125, but D to E is 10/9 or 1.11111... Even so, you can imagine how people who were playing around with sounds might notice, damn, these are nice even steps we have here. Though you might also notice places where, in this scheme, it's not completely even - for example G to A (ratio 10/9) is noticeably smaller than A to B (ratio 9/8).

We've obliquely approached the idea of dividing the octave up into 12 steps, where each step is about the size of the gap between E and F or B and C. We call each of these steps a 'semitone'. Two semitones make a 'whole tone'. We might fill in all the missing semitones in our scale here using whole-number ratios, which gives you the black keys on the piano. There are multiple schemes for doing this, and the ratios tend to get a bit uglier. In the system we've outlined so far, a 'semitone' is not a fixed ratio, even though it's always somewhere around 1.06.

The set of 12 semitones is called the 'chromatic scale'. It is something like the 'colour space' for Western music. When you compose a piece, you select some subset of the 12 semitones as your 'palette' - the 'scale of' a piece of music.

But we still have a problem here, which is the unevenness of the gaps we discussed above. This could be considered a feature, not a bug, since each scale would have its own 'character' - it's defined by a slightly different set of ratios. But it does add a lot of complication when moving between scales.

So let's say we take all this irregularity as a bug, and try to fix it. The solution is 'equal temperament', which is the idea that the semitone should always be the exact same ratio, allowing the instrument to play any scale you please without difficulty.

Posed like this, it's easy to work out what that ratio should be: if you want 12 equal steps to be an octave, each step must be the 12th root of 2. Which is an irrational number that is about 1.05946...

At this point you say, wait, Bryn, didn't you just start this all off by saying that the human ear likes to hear nice simple integer ratios of frequencies? And now you're telling me that we should actually use an irrational number, which can't be represented by any integer ratio? What gives? But it turns out the human ear isn't quite that picky. If you have a ratio of 7 semitones, or a ratio of 2^(7/12)=1.4983..., that's close enough to 1.5 to feel almost as good. And this brings a lot of huge advantages: you can easily move ('transpose') between different scales of the same type, and trust that all the relevant ratios will be the same.

Equal temperament was the eventual standard, but there was a gradual process of approaching it called stuff like 'well-tempered' or 'good temperament'. One of the major steps along the way was Bach's collection 'the well-tempered klavier', showing how a keyboard instrument with a suitable tuning could play music in every single established scale. Here's one of those pieces:

Although we're using these irrational numbers, inside the scale are certain intervals that are considered to have certain meanings - some that are 'consonant' and some that are 'dissonant'. We've already mentioned the 'fifth', which is the 'most consonant' ratio. The fifth consists of 7 semitones and it's roughly a 1.5 ratio in equal temperament. Its close cousin is the 'fourth', which consists of 5 semitones. Because it's so nice, the fifth is kind of 'neutral' - it's just there but it doesn't mean a lot on its own.

For the other important intervals we've got to introduce different types of scale.

The scale zoo

So, up above we introduced the 'major' scale. In semitones, the major scale is intervals of 2, 2, 1, 2, 2, 2, 1. This is also called a 'mode', specifically the 'Ionian mode'. There are seven different 'modes', representing different permutations of these intervals, which all have funky Greek names.

The major scale generally connotes "upbeat, happy, triumphant". There are 12 different major scales, taking the 12 different notes of the chromatic scale as the starting point for each one.

Next is the minor scale, which tends to feel more sad or mysterious. Actually there are a few different minor scales. The 'natural minor' goes 2, 1, 2, 2, 1, 2, 2. You might notice this is a cyclic permutation of the major scale! So in fact a natural minor scale is the same set of notes as a major scale. What makes it different?

Well, remember when we talked about tension and resolution? It's about how the notes are organised. Our starting note is the 'root' note of the scale, usually established early on in the piece of music - quite often the very first note of the piece. The way you move around that root note determines whether the piece 'feels' major or minor. So every major scale has a companion natural minor scale, and vice versa. The set of notes in a piece is enough to narrow it down to one minor and one major, but you have to look closer to figure out which one is most relevant.

The 'harmonic minor' is almost the same, but it raises the second-last note (the 7th) a semitone. So its semitone intervals are 2, 1, 2, 2, 1, 3, 1.

The 'melodic minor' raises both the 6th and 7th by one semitone, (edit: but usually only on the way up). So its semitone intervals are 2, 1, 2, 2, 2, 2, 1. (edit: When you come back down you tend to use the natural minor.)

If you talk about a 'minor scale' unqualified, you mean the natural minor. It's also the 'Aeolian mode' in that system of funky Greek names I mentioned earlier.

So that leads to a set of 24 scales, a major and minor scale for every semitone. These are the most common scale types that almost all Western tonal music is written in.

But we ain't done. Because remember I said there were all those other "modes"? These are actually just cyclic permutations of the major scale. There's a really nerdy Youtube channel called '8-bit music theory' that has a bunch of videos analysing them in the context of videogame music which I'm going to watch at some point now I finally have enough background to understand wtf he's talking about.

And of top of that you have all sorts of other variants that come from shifting a note up or down a semitone.

The cast of intervals

OK, so we've established the idea of scales. Now let's talk intervals. As you might guess from the 'fifth', the intervals are named after their position in the scale.

Let me repeat the two most common scale modes, in terms of number of semitones relative to the root note:

position: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8 major: 0, 2, 4, 5, 7, 9, 11, 12 minor: 0, 2, 3, 5, 7, 8, 10, 12

So you can see the fourth and fifth are the same in both. But there's a difference in three places: the third, the sixth, and the seventh. In each case, the minor is down a semitone from the major.

The interval names are... not quite as simple as 'place in the scale', but that's mostly how it works. e.g. the 'major third' is four semitones and the 'minor third' is three.

The fourth and fifth, which are dual to each other (meaning going up a fifth takes you to the same note as going down a fourth, and vice versa) are called 'perfect'. The note right in between them, an interval of 6 semitones, is called the 'tritone'.

(You can also refer to these intervals as 'augmented' or 'diminished' versions of adjacent intervals. Just in case there wasn't enough terminology in the air. See the table for the names of every interval.)

So, with these names, what's the significance of each one? The thirds, sixths and sevenths are important, because they tell us whether we're in minor or major land when we're building chords. (More on that soon.)

The fifth and the octave are super consonant, as we've said. But the notes that are close to them, like the seventh, the second and even more so the tritone, are quite dissonant - they're near to a nice thing and ironically that leads to awkward ratios which feel uncomfy to our ears. So generally speaking, you use them to build tension and anticipation and set up for a resolution later. (Or don't, and deliberately leave them hanging.)

Of course all of these positions in the scale also have funky Latin names that describe their function.

There's a lot more complicated nuances that make the meaning of a particular interval very contextual, and I certainly couldn't claim to really understand in much depth, but that's basically what I understand about intervals so far.

Our goofy-ass musical notation system

So if semitones are the building block of everything, naturally the musical notation system we use in the modern 12TET era spaces everything out neatly in terms of semitones, right?

Right...?

Lmao no. Actually sheet music is written so that each row of the stave (or staff, the five lines you write notes on) represents a note of the C major scale. All the notes that aren't on the C major scale are represented with special symbols, namely ♯ (read 'sharp') which means 'go up a semitone', and ♭ (read 'flat') which means 'go down a semitone'. That means the same note can be notated in two different ways: A♯ and B♭ are the same note.

The above image shows the chromatic scale, notated in two different ways. Every step is exactly one semitone.

Since a given scale might end up using one of these 'in between' notes that has to be marked sharp or flat, and you don't want to do that for every single time that note appears. Luckily, it turns out that each major/minor scale pair ends up defining a unique set of notes to be adjusted up or down a semitone, called the 'key signature'. So you can write the key signature at the beginning of the piece, and it lasts until you change key signature. For example, the key of 'A♭ major' ends up having four sharps:

There is a formula you can use to work out the set of sharps or flats to write for a given key. (That's about the point I checked out on musictheory.net.)

There is some advantage to this system, which is that it very clearly tells you when the composer intends to shift into a different scale, and it saves space since with the usual scales there are no wasted lines. But it's also annoyingly arbitrary. You just have to remember that B to C is only a semitone, and the same for E to F.

What are those weird squiggly symbols? Those are 'clefs'. Each one assigns notes to specific lines. The first one 𝄞 is the 'treble clef', the second one 𝄢 is the 'bass clef'. Well, actually these are the 'G-clef' and the 'F-clef', and where they go on the stave determines note assignment, but thankfully this has been standardised and you will only ever see them in one place. The treble clef declares the lines to be E G B D F and the bass clef G B D F A.

There is also a rarer 'C-clef' which looks like 𝄡. This is usually used as the 'Alto clef' which means F A C E G.

This notation system seems needlessly convoluted, but we're rather stuck with it, because most of the music has been written in it already. It's not uncommon for people to come up with alternative notations, though, such as 'tabs' for a stringed instrument which indicate which position should be played on each string. Nowadays on computers, a lot of DAWs will instead use a 'piano roll' presentation which is organised by semitone.

And then there's chords.

Chords! And arpeggios!

A chord is when you play 3 or more notes at the same time.

Simple enough right? But if you wanna talk about it, you gotta have a way to give them names. And that's where things get fucking nuts.

But the basic chord type is a 'triad', consisting of three notes, separated by certain intervals. There are two standard types, which you basically assemble by taking every other note of a scale. In terms of semitones, these are:

Major triad: 0 - 4 - 7 Minor triad: 0 - 3 - 7

Then there's a bunch of variations, for example:

Augmented: 0 - 4 - 8 Diminished: 0 - 3 - 6 Suspended: 0 - 2 - 7 (sus2) or 0 - 5 - 7 (sus4) Dominant seventh: 0 - 4 - 7 - 10 Power: 0 - 7

There is a notation scheme for chords in pop, jazz, rock, etc., which starts with a root note and then adds a bunch of superscripts to tell you about any special features of a chord. So 'C' means the C Major triad (namely C,E,G) and 'Cm' or 'c' means the C Minor triad (namely C,E♭,G).

In musical composition, you usually tend to surround the melody (single voice) with a 'chord progression' that both harmonises and creates a sense of 'movement' from one chord to another. Some instruments like guitar and piano are really good at playing chords. On instruments that can't play chords, they can still play 'arpeggios', which is what happens if you take a chord and unroll it into a sequence of notes. Or you play in an ensemble and harmonise with the other players to create a chord together. Awww.

Given a scale, you can construct a series of seven triad chords, starting from each note of the scale. These are generally given scale-specific Roman numerals corresponding to the position in the scale, and they're used to analyse the progression of chords in a song. I pretty much learned about this today while writing this post, so I can't tell you much more than that.

Right now, that's about as far as I've gotten with chords. On a violin, you can play just two strings at the same time after all - I never had much need to learn about them so it remains a huge hole in my understanding of music. I can't recognise chords by ear at all. So I gotta learn more about them.

As much as I wrote this for my own benefit... if you found this post interesting, let me know. I might write more if people find this style of presentation appealing. ^^'

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

WIBTA for ghosting someone in RP?

This is a very chronically online problem, I'm aware, but I could use Tumblr's input. This is kinda long, so tl;Dr at the end.

So I (ftm), Z (nb), and O (f) (ages unimportant, but we're all adults) have a server for a shared fandom of ours. There are other people on the server too, but they're relatively unimportant to the problem.

One of the major channels to note was an rp channel. Things started off peachy keen! Everyone was having a grand old time! However, little problems started to pop up. O began introducing some ocs to the rp group chat, which, while outlandish for the setting (her ocs were ghosts from 1500's Minecraft Germany or whatever? I'm still not entirely clear since she's bad at continuity). And while I'm not against more out there ocs, the issue was how she used them, constantly trying to solve problems instantly. They felt more like MacGuffin's than characters. But whatever, she's our friend so we didn't really care.

Then, the racism incident happened.

It's a cool name, but sorta makes it sound more important than it was. Basically O had "monster form" at the end of each of her characters names, since apparently they had human forms too. Well, in an argument, a character referred to the group of ocs as monsters (since, how else would you refer to all of em at once?), and in one of her ocs replies they said smth like "oh btw thanks for the racist remark".

IMMEDIATELY in the ooc chat, Z and I both go "hey man, we're not playing the racism game", which... caused O to leave the server temporarily. Fun.

The relevance of the racism incident is to show why we can't just talk to her ooc about the upcoming issues.

((Very offhandedly she also keeps trying to pressure Z specifically into rping? Even though Z has made it clear many times this month that they are busy with the holidays??))

Anyways, time passes and O keeps wanting to tack on useless shit to her characters (both canon and ocs) for literally no reason. From "Bruno esk powers" to "shapeshifting genitals", it just felt like feature creep.

Eventually this comes to a head when she asks if her 32 year old character could be a WWII veteran.

You know. In the text chat based rp where characters use hashtags and emotes and talk about Twitter.

After a small back and forth between Z and O in the ooc chat, Z just kinda, gave up. Part of the reason they made the server was to transfer their previous rp writings to a server they own, so they don't have to worry about it getting deleted. (Before anyone assumes Z is just being strict, trust me. Z had been very accommodating with letting me and O make inputs and have our characters make an impact. This wasn't an issue of O's lack of control, but rather lack of care about the setting.)

Z admitted in a group chat with just me and their partner that they basically are just going to give up on their previous rp, and just let O do whatever she wants.

This really, and I mean REALLY, ticked me off.

Now, I will not start a ruckus about it on the server itself since I know Z hates confrontation, but now I've just settled on to give O the cold shoulder in rp, not replying to her ocs, barely interacting with her canon characters, etc.

I feel like in character I have a valid reason to ignore her (her ocs made one of my ocs upset, and my other characters are upset for him), but I can't tell if this would be too mean?

ALSO quick little note I forgot to mention above, but it's basically just the three of us in the rp chat, so with Z busy for the holidays, I'm the only other person who O would be able to rp with, if that impacts the vote.

TL;DR - Someone in a rp server is being a right ass and we cannot talk to her about it without potentially starting a huge fight, now I want to ignore her in rp. WIBTA

What are these acronyms?

[mybelovednick]

Crimson and Clover, Honey (Chapter 1)

Main Page

Nick Sturniolo x Male!character

Summary Nick Sturniolo is a Bookstore owner in a small town in Northern Italy. Vayu Arora is an elementary school teacher who is a frequent customer at Nick's Store. Both of them meet and they are suppose to fall in love like faith intended. But what happens when one of them is unable to let go of their past selves?

Nick x male!character Angst Fluff/comfort Hurt/comfort

TW: Too corny ig

******

1

The people we meet in our lives are just stories. Some are more haunting than others. It is one of life's gifts, I suppose. I am a story, so are you and so was the man with the bluest eyes I had ever seen.

The words we exchange, the touch we share, the emotions we experience, the way we live and love, the way we hate - it all comes together to form our stories. The man with the beautiful blue eyes and a magnificent smile had a story intertwined with mine, it was not all the bad parts, and there were parts that I am grateful for. These stories make us who we are, shape our thoughts and in turn, merge with the universe itself when we are gone.

I remember when I first saw him. He was sitting all alone in his beautiful bookstore. He seemed unreal at first. The honeycomb rays of sunlight split through the cracks of the clouds and flowed like a yellow stream of jellyfish into the room, through that slightly cracked window just past him. The dark room was dimly lit and you could barely make out that he was there sitting in silence.

    The room was filled with posters of vintage films, and 80’s rock bands, along with pictures of Saints, and wooden artefacts that looked like they were carved by the Gods, even. In the backdrop, he was immersed in his small, emerald-gold book, in his own little world.

    He was so still, it was uncanny. If it wasn’t for the sun, the dark room would have gobbled him up. It would seem like he was one of the wooden statues himself. Carved by the angels. But his blue eyes gave away the fact that he was not a part of that inanimate silence, rather something living and breathing within the same intimate space. His eyes were as blue as the ocean that Italy herself shared her beautiful beaches with.

“Do you mind?”  The boy’s voice echoed in the dimly-lit room. The tone was unwelcoming, his voice wasn’t ‘smooth as honey’ like the poets usually describe of beautiful men in their lovely poems; it was husky and sharp like a knife- similar to a thunder rolling down the dark clouds. “Hello? Back to earth pretty boy. Aren’t you going to buy something?”.

That made me fluster. I hastily grabbed the nearest book that my hand could reach. In the process, I knocked down a few books and winced as they fell on the ground with a loud ‘thud’ that made one of the window panes rattle. I was about pick them up.

“Leave it be.” The young man said. “I’ll pick ‘em up later.”

“Uh- okay.” I stupidly mumbled and practically sprinted towards the counter. “These books please.” I winced for a second time as I unintentionally placed the books too loudly on the table top for him to check.

I wanted to crawl into a cave and die.

But then I heard a soft chuckle. It was then when I first saw him smile. I caught myself smiling back at him. I loved his nose ring, I loved his freckled cheek, I loved how the sun seemed to give him a faint touch of blush, I loved how red his lips were, I lov-

“Should I give you a carry bag?” His voice once again forced me to snap back into reality.

I simply nodded and handed him a few Euros. “Uhm, I am Vayu… by the way.”

As I extended my right hand for a handshake, He picked up my bag and placed it on my hand, “Nice to meet you. Have a good day.” Why had I expected him to return the favour by providing his name as well?  I knew his smile was forced but I would never admit that to myself. Embarrassed with the entire chain of events, I nodded awkwardly and walked away from the store.

That was three months ago.

~~~

“Damn dude! So you went to the bookstore, saw an average white guy with fake blonde hair which could be his wig. Threw all the books on the ground and practically destroyed his counter top. And he ghosted you right to your face?” Nathan burst out laughing.

“That was a stretch but yes, thank you for summarising my own tragedy to me, Nate.” I rolled my eyes and sat back with my arms tucked close to my chest.

Nathan, Tara and I taught at the same school, St. Maria Elementary. It was a small school in practically nowhere of Northern Italy. I moved into this town, about six months ago. I was born and brought up in Delhi, India. But things changed when I decided to come out to my family. My parents were not okay with the fact that their only son was doomed to not having a child of his own to continue the legacy of the Arora family just because he could never love a woman. I never blamed them, though. I did understand their perspective and respected their wishes. But it was suffocating for me to stay there. I needed to leave and so I did. I had my masters in Zoology and Bachelors degree in Education from some of the most prestigious universities in the country. I could go to the US or the UK or any other place with my own expenditure. But I decided to apply to somewhere safe and peaceful. And the faiths brought me here, in this town.

And I was happy then. I had bought myself a small two storied bungalow down the ‘Via del Canto’ street. The house was dirty and filthy when I bought it but I did do my best to make it feel like home. I knew it was the one from the moment I saw the beautiful backyard which I always dreamed of having. The street was not a very well-known one. It was a chore to ride uphill with a bicycle but I loved my own space. You could even see the ocean from the veranda of my bedroom.

I have always been a practical man. Once I reached here, I immediately had an established job and a place to stay. My aunt, Irani, who lived in Milan, helped me a lot throughout this process. “But you are over-qualified to be a biology teacher in a small school like this, Vayu.” She would say, “You are a talented young man and with a few more years of training, you could be a reputed professor in some of the most prestigious Universities in the world! Why waste your talent?”. And she was right. Why waste my years in a middle of fucking nowhere? I didn’t know the exact answer for this but for once I wanted to listen to my heart. Ever since my childhood I did whatever my parents asked me to do, whatever was expected of me from society. All these twenty-eight years of people-pleasing culminated to me getting abandoned by people I thought were my own. So what was the point?

Nevertheless here I was, all alone in a foreign country. That was until I met Nathan, the English teacher and Tara, the art teacher in the same school I worked in as a Biology teacher; and I felt like I found a place in this world. They were some of the best people I ever met and I will always be grateful to be a part of their lives.  

            As usual, the three of us sat down at our table in the teachers’ cafeteria during recess time. We shared all our stories of our past selves. I talked about almost everything with them and they knew about me liking other men. It was a secret between our trio because Tara was a ‘raging’ (her words) bisexual and Nate was apparently bi-curious and still not sure of any labels. I mean kudos to each of us.

The conversation continued.

“Stop laughing like a fucking hyena Nate.” Tara snapped. Nathan stifled his laughter while wiping off tears from his eyes after all that laughter. “So Vayu.” Tara turned towards me, leaning in closely to engage in the conversation, “You said he smiled too right?”

I nodded like a child about to be given some hope in the form of candy.

“Hey! That does mean he liked your goofy-ass.” Tara boasted proudly.

“I mean I think so.” I whispered, mostly to myself in hopes of self-consolidation.

“That’s great. By the way, what did you buy?” Nathan asked mid bite while chomping on his sandwich.

“Uhh…” I couldn’t say it and my ears were starting to turn red.

“What’s the matter? Say it” Tara was curious too.

“Okay fine I accidentally bought porno magazine along with Shakespeare’s Hamlet. I don’t even like Hamle-..”

Nathan was almost choking on his sandwich. And Tara looked at me like a disappointed mom about to beat his son’s ass.

“You guys, hear me out-..” I was begging for my dearest dignity, “I was in a hurry okay? And the guy was truly very pretty. I got distracted and..”

“And what?” Nathan cut me off while he was gasping for air, “Bought a fucking Playboy and showed him the horny-ass motherfucker that you really are? I can’t. I need air, Tara! Get me some fucking air right now.”

“Nate you are sweating and you look redder than the tomato in your sandwich. Get a grip, man.” Tara said.

“Vayu look,” Tara was serious now, “Don’t be so anxious about such trivial matters. It was just an infatuation. Right? Right?”

“Right.” I lowered my gaze.

“It is not like you have to see him every day.”

“I suppose you are not wrong.” I replied and Tara smiled.\

“And get a bottle of water for Nate. Dying from choking on a sandwich is not a sexy way to go.” Tara ordered.

I really did love my friends. And maybe Tara was right. Maybe it was a onetime thing. Although, I would love to see that smile once again, someday maybe.

**********

Next Chapter

A/N : This is my first ever fanfic series for the Sturniolo fandom. I used to write a lot during my 1D days. I know there is not much nick content right now. Because I want to introduce Vayu to the readers first. More to come, hopefully. Please do comment your honest opinion. <3

Tag: @ohmtoff @loud-sturniolos @matty-bear2 @maria4mari @solarsturniolo @freshloveforthefit @darl1ngdr1sta @tkhzs @thenickgirl @soursturniolo @certifiednatelover

(pls let me know if you feel uncomfortable if tagged)

[banabiohazard]

(DDLC four hearts au, Sayori, Yuri, Monika, Natsuki, old friend, jealousy.)

*cw for MC’s entire character being lifted from the game grumps ddlc playthrough, ik a lot of folks don’t like them, and valid! But it’s how I experienced ddlc for the first time and it’s special to me. Also sexual topics*

Sayori bounced on her toes with excitement as she waited for her partners to show up. she had sent the group chat a simple message:

‘I’ve got a surprise for you guys, someone I want you to meet! Come meet me at the park down the street from my house if you can!!’

And she quickly received replies of confirmation. When she saw Yuri and Monika’s cars pull up and park she was practically jumping up and down. When they reached her she knocked on the tree behind her and out walked a guy their age, his brown hair would be down past his chin where it not tied up in a knot at the back of his head, his chin was fuzzed with a light shadow of a beard. He shifted his legs to stand properly as he stared back at the girls with his Hazel eyes trapped behind wireframe glasses. “Guys, this is Emcie! He was my bestest friend when we were kids!” He nodded his head as a lazy bow.

“He moved away not long before we all met, but he’s back for the week to see me and he expressed interest in meeting you all!” He laughed a little,

“You brought it up, and practically begged me to meet them! Not like I woulda said no anyhow.”

Monika struggled not to cringe at his voice, he sounded drunk, like he couldn’t control his volume or tone, but he showed no outward signs of inebriation. Sayori pouted playfully as he held out a hand to Yuri first, “Sayori tells my she’s dating one of you, I’d lik-“ he started as he shook Yuri’s hand but Sayori cut him off, “All of them actually!” He turned to her and then back to Yuri and the others, “Oh sorry, well hey! You didn’t communicate that dummy!” He playfully smacked Sayori’s arm with the back of his hand, “I Know, I wanted to see your face!” She giggled, he huffed a laugh through his nose and shook his head. “Well,” he lowered his voice and stage whispered to Sayori, “Great fucking job man, bagging three tens, I didn’t think you had it in you!” Sayori pushed him, “Shut up!!”

Natsuki stepped forward and took charge,

“Nice to finally meet you, I’m Natsuki, Say talked about you a lot a few years back.”

She held out her fist and he quickly knocked his against it. Yuri followed,

“I am Yuri, it is pleasant to make your acquaintance.”

“Woah, you got a deep voice for a woman!” He exclaimed with wonder, only for Sayori to punch him in the shoulder. “Ow! Hey what did I do!” Yuri waved to dismiss it, “It’s quite alright I get that a lot.” She played absentmindedly with her hair as Sayori glared at Emcie, “Uh, I’m sorry anyway.” He said as he looked back at Sayori apologetically before making his way over to Monika.

“Hello. It’s always nice to meet a friend of Sayori.”

He nodded, “You’re Monika right?” Her brow rose, “Yes I am, have we met before?” He nodded, “We shared a couple classes in high school.” Monika waited to recognize him but simply did not. “I am sorry I do not remember you.” He waved it off, “Don’t worry about it, would y’all like to get something to eat? My treat! We can all get all to know each other and stuff.” They all agreed and off they went.

The restaurant was very cozy, a little place Sayori had taken them all to before. While everyone was making small talk Yuri glanced at Emcie’s plate, “That’s an awful lot of potato’s.” She said with an inquisitive tone, it was true, everything on the plate had at least a little potato. “Oh yeah,” he started, “I love em! In any form, ask Say I ate them raw when we were kids.” Sayori had a giggle fit across the table, struggling her words out. “He carried a few around in his backpack!” She laughed harder, “He slowly put one in my mouth to make me shut up once!” He shoveled mashed potatoes into his mouth and nodded as Natsuki laughed hysterically with Sayori and Yuri and Monika exchanged looks.

After the meal they found themselves laughing and talking into the evening as they walked the city streets. Yuri wasn’t sure why, but she found herself placing herself between Sayori and Emcie, trying to take part in their conversations, and generally putting herself closer to Sayori than him. After a long time of this song and dance Sayori pulled her aside while Nat wrapped Monika and Emcie in an unwinnable hypothetical. “Is everything okay? You are acting a little weird.” Yuri couldn’t bring herself to meet Sayori’s eyes, “I am fine dear.” Sayori pouted, “Come on my night lily, something is clearly getting to you.” She took Yuri’s hand in hers. Yuri sighed hard and it caught in her throat, “I uh, I don’t know… I’m jealous I suppose. You have a lot of chemistry with him, and history.” She took a sudden interest in staring a hole through her shoes.

Sayori took Yuri’s cheek in her hand and Yuri leaned into it. “Yuri, my sweet girl. I don’t like men. You have absolutely nothing to worry about, he’s like my brother, and I’m like 80% sure he likes dudes.” Yuri chuckled a little under her breath before Sayori surprised her with a small kiss, “Do you want to go home? To my house I mean, I have all week to catch up with him, I want you to have peace of mind.” Yuri nodded guiltily. Sayori squeezed her hand before she pulled away, “Let me go excuse us okay?” Yuri nodded again, running her fingers there her hair.

Sayori came speed walking back up to the group and interrupted Monika trying to get Natsuki to explain why there would be alligators in a crashing plane, “Hey guys, Yuri’s a little overwhelmed so I’m gonna take her home alright?” Monika and Natsuki looked immediately concerned but Sayori quelled it by glancing from them to Emcie and shooting them a look that said ‘I’ll text you about it’ and as she tried to leave Emcie spoke up, “Did I do something wrong?” Sayori sighed and turned back around, “No Emcie, she’s just not wanting to be out right now. You didn’t do a thing, I’ll see you tomorrow okay?” He gave a nod and off she went.

On the walk home Yuri kept her eyes down as they walked hand in hand, “Yuri?” Sayori asked, “mhm?” Yuri responded quietly, “Please don’t be upset, you didn’t do anything wrong.” Yuri nodded, Sayori thought for the next few steps, she grinned wide and kissed Yuri’s cheek, “How about, when we get home I make you forget alll about it.” Yuri turned red as she met Sayori’s eyes, “Okaaay?” Yuri nodded again faster this time, “You’re adorable.” Sayori said as they reached her doorstep. “I- I’m not.” Yuri responded on their way through the front door, and upstairs “No lying.” Sayori shot back, leading Yuri by the arm into her bedroom.

[theimperiumchronicles]

Happy New Year! How are your characters celebrating? Do they even care? Are they still hungover? Is there a completely different celebration for the passing of time? 🎆

Happy New Year, sweet Tori!! <3

I'll answer for a few of my WIPs below the cut

@theimperiumchronicles - those who are topside celebrate in whatever city they are in. In Imperium, the Horsemen throw a huge masquerade party in the Palace for all of their friends. After the events of The Horsemen's Ball (Book 1 out this year), they are NOT going to celebrate topside EVER again. *snorts*

Uffern - Uffern is not on the same calendar as the Earthly realm and Imperium. Kellen hosts a massive ball as well and invites deities from other realms as well as the aristocracy of Uffern. This can cause some issues as not everyone he invites gets along with one another.

@devil-in-the-details-ay - Depending on which Pantheon you are referring to, the dawn of a New Year takes place at different times of the year. Some of the Pantheons are on lunar calendars. For those who celebrate on January 1, some feasts and festivities would seem relatively familiar to anyone on Earth. Astaroth and Yara celebrate on their private island with two other special people. Who those are? Well, keep reading to figure it out. *winks*

@behindthesemasks - There is a massive celebration at the plantation home with all of Melania's friends. There are rituals and offerings to the ancestors. Thanks are given for the previous year and prayers are offered for blessings to be bestowed in the year to come.

@inopinatus-ea - While Emery and Adelia will soon be forming their own traditions, currently Branoc hosts a huge bonfire at the Palace for his entire family and aristocracy of the Kingdom of Annisgwyl. There are ceremonies that take place involving both Raiden and Emery. It is a joyous time with plenty of food and drink, most people being passed out drunk long before midnight arrives.

@magical-mistakes-vm - Ceremonies are held in the great woods that surround the Nachtnebel estate. Offerings are given to the gods and the ancestors. Elmar of course calls upon the animals to take part as well. It is a high holiday for the Dunkelheit Coven. Festivities go long into the night.

@mystsoftime - Due to their ages, Dante and Trevarius long ago stopped celebrating the New Year. The turning of a new year is a bittersweet time for Renata. For the most part, Dante and Trev try to distract her from thinking about the year passing and all they have lost in the past year, and how long it has been since she lost her family and the man she loved, although her new love with Dante has been a huge balm to that ache. It may just be that this next year, they will have something extra special to celebrate *winks*

@princess-of-thieves-id - Both Inara and Diyan's families had huge celebrations at their palaces for the turning of the new year. However, now that they, and Arik, are aboard the vessel, a new celebration will have to be formed. What that will be? Not even I know, but I'm sure these three will come up with something. They are full of surprises for each other and me, after all.

@tapperhet-em - When Meeri's father was King, the Palace would hold a huge ball to celebrate the passing of one year, and the beginning of the next. There were fireworks, dancing, drinking, and feasting into the wee hours of the morning. Now, with the five friends being on the run, there will be no celebration this year. Once they are able to find a location where they are able to relax, that may change, but they have little to celebrate this year. There will probably be a fire in the fireplace and some animal the men hunted roasted over it. Also, thanks given to the gods that they have made it to the end of the year alive.

@whileyouwait-dm - When you are as old as creation itself, the passing of years has little meaning to you. Now, however, Djall has Miriana in his life and his realm. This puts a new spin on things. His Overseers and his Generals also have taken a general liking to her, so they are going to want to make her happy. As she is adjusting to life in a hell realm, a little party might be in order, one will have to see. *grin*

I hope this is what you were looking for <3

[dickens-daily]

CHAPTER V—THE BROKER’S MAN

The excitement of the late election has subsided, and our parish being once again restored to a state of comparative tranquillity, we are enabled to devote our attention to those parishioners who take little share in our party contests or in the turmoil and bustle of public life. And we feel sincere pleasure in acknowledging here, that in collecting materials for this task we have been greatly assisted by Mr. Bung himself, who has imposed on us a debt of obligation which we fear we can never repay. The life of this gentleman has been one of a very chequered description: he has undergone transitions—not from grave to gay, for he never was grave—not from lively to severe, for severity forms no part of his disposition; his fluctuations have been between poverty in the extreme, and poverty modified, or, to use his own emphatic language, ‘between nothing to eat and just half enough.’ He is not, as he forcibly remarks, ‘one of those fortunate men who, if they were to dive under one side of a barge stark-naked, would come up on the other with a new suit of clothes on, and a ticket for soup in the waistcoat-pocket:’ neither is he one of those, whose spirit has been broken beyond redemption by misfortune and want. He is just one of the careless, good-for-nothing, happy fellows, who float, cork-like, on the surface, for the world to play at hockey with: knocked here, and there, and everywhere: now to the right, then to the left, again up in the air, and anon to the bottom, but always reappearing and bounding with the stream buoyantly and merrily along. Some few months before he was prevailed upon to stand a contested election for the office of beadle, necessity attached him to the service of a broker; and on the opportunities he here acquired of ascertaining the condition of most of the poorer inhabitants of the parish, his patron, the captain, first grounded his claims to public support. Chance threw the man in our way a short time since. We were, in the first instance, attracted by his prepossessing impudence at the election; we were not surprised, on further acquaintance, to find him a shrewd, knowing fellow, with no inconsiderable power of observation; and, after conversing with him a little, were somewhat struck (as we dare say our readers have frequently been in other cases) with the power some men seem to have, not only of sympathising with, but to all appearance of understanding feelings to which they themselves are entire strangers. We had been expressing to the new functionary our surprise that he should ever have served in the capacity to which we have just adverted, when we gradually led him into one or two professional anecdotes. As we are induced to think, on reflection, that they will tell better in nearly his own words, than with any attempted embellishments of ours, we will at once entitle them.

MR BUNG’S NARRATIVE

‘It’s very true, as you say, sir,’ Mr. Bung commenced, ‘that a broker’s man’s is not a life to be envied; and in course you know as well as I do, though you don’t say it, that people hate and scout ’em because they’re the ministers of wretchedness, like, to poor people. But what could I do, sir? The thing was no worse because I did it, instead of somebody else; and if putting me in possession of a house would put me in possession of three and sixpence a day, and levying a distress on another man’s goods would relieve my distress and that of my family, it can’t be expected but what I’d take the job and go through with it. I never liked it, God knows; I always looked out for something else, and the moment I got other work to do, I left it. If there is anything wrong in being the agent in such matters—not the principal, mind you—I’m sure the business, to a beginner like I was, at all events, carries its own punishment along with it. I wished again and again that the people would only blow me up, or pitch into me—that I wouldn’t have minded, it’s all in my way; but it’s the being shut up by yourself in one room for five days, without so much as an old newspaper to look at, or anything to see out o’ the winder but the roofs and chimneys at the back of the house, or anything to listen to, but the ticking, perhaps, of an old Dutch clock, the sobbing of the missis, now and then, the low talking of friends in the next room, who speak in whispers, lest “the man” should overhear them, or perhaps the occasional opening of the door, as a child peeps in to look at you, and then runs half-frightened away—it’s all this, that makes you feel sneaking somehow, and ashamed of yourself; and then, if it’s wintertime, they just give you fire enough to make you think you’d like more, and bring in your grub as if they wished it ’ud choke you—as I dare say they do, for the matter of that, most heartily. If they’re very civil, they make you up a bed in the room at night, and if they don’t, your master sends one in for you; but there you are, without being washed or shaved all the time, shunned by everybody, and spoken to by no one, unless some one comes in at dinner-time, and asks you whether you want any more, in a tone as much to say, “I hope you don’t,” or, in the evening, to inquire whether you wouldn’t rather have a candle, after you’ve been sitting in the dark half the night. When I was left in this way, I used to sit, think, think, thinking, till I felt as lonesome as a kitten in a wash-house copper with the lid on; but I believe the old brokers’ men who are regularly trained to it, never think at all. I have heard some on ’em say, indeed, that they don’t know how!

‘I put in a good many distresses in my time (continued Mr. Bung), and in course I wasn’t long in finding, that some people are not as much to be pitied as others are, and that people with good incomes who get into difficulties, which they keep patching up day after day and week after week, get so used to these sort of things in time, that at last they come scarcely to feel them at all. I remember the very first place I was put in possession of, was a gentleman’s house in this parish here, that everybody would suppose couldn’t help having money if he tried. I went with old Fixem, my old master, ’bout half arter eight in the morning; rang the area-bell; servant in livery opened the door:

“Governor at home?”—

“Yes, he is,” says the man; “but he’s breakfasting just now.”

“Never mind,” says Fixem, “just you tell him there’s a gentleman here, as wants to speak to him partickler.”

So the servant he opens his eyes, and stares about him all ways—looking for the gentleman, as it struck me, for I don’t think anybody but a man as was stone-blind would mistake Fixem for one; and as for me, I was as seedy as a cheap cowcumber. Hows’ever, he turns round, and goes to the breakfast-parlour, which was a little snug sort of room at the end of the passage, and Fixem (as we always did in that profession), without waiting to be announced, walks in arter him, and before the servant could get out,

“Please, sir, here’s a man as wants to speak to you,” looks in at the door as familiar and pleasant as may be.

“Who the devil are you, and how dare you walk into a gentleman’s house without leave?” says the master, as fierce as a bull in fits.

“My name,” says Fixem, winking to the master to send the servant away, and putting the warrant into his hands folded up like a note, “My name’s Smith,” says he, “and I called from Johnson’s about that business of Thompson’s.”—

“Oh,” says the other, quite down on him directly, “How is Thompson?” says he; “Pray sit down, Mr. Smith: John, leave the room.”

Out went the servant; and the gentleman and Fixem looked at one another till they couldn’t look any longer, and then they varied the amusements by looking at me, who had been standing on the mat all this time. “Hundred and fifty pounds, I see,” said the gentleman at last.

“Hundred and fifty pound,” said Fixem, “besides cost of levy, sheriff’s poundage, and all other incidental expenses.”—

“Um,” says the gentleman, “I shan’t be able to settle this before to-morrow afternoon.”—

“Very sorry; but I shall be obliged to leave my man here till then,” replies Fixem, pretending to look very miserable over it.

“That’s very unfort’nate,” says the gentleman, “for I have got a large party here to-night, and I’m ruined if those fellows of mine get an inkling of the matter—just step here, Mr. Smith,” says he, after a short pause.

So Fixem walks with him up to the window, and after a good deal of whispering, and a little chinking of suverins, and looking at me, he comes back and says, “Bung, you’re a handy fellow, and very honest I know. This gentleman wants an assistant to clean the plate and wait at table to-day, and if you’re not particularly engaged,” says old Fixem, grinning like mad, and shoving a couple of suverins into my hand, “he’ll be very glad to avail himself of your services.” Well, I laughed: and the gentleman laughed, and we all laughed; and I went home and cleaned myself, leaving Fixem there, and when I went back, Fixem went away, and I polished up the plate, and waited at table, and gammoned the servants, and nobody had the least idea I was in possession, though it very nearly came out after all; for one of the last gentlemen who remained, came down-stairs into the hall where I was sitting pretty late at night, and putting half-a-crown into my hand, says, “Here, my man,” says he, “run and get me a coach, will you?”

I thought it was a do, to get me out of the house, and was just going to say so, sulkily enough, when the gentleman (who was up to everything) came running down-stairs, as if he was in great anxiety. “Bung,” says he, pretending to be in a consuming passion. “Sir,” says I. “Why the devil an’t you looking after that plate?”—“I was just going to send him for a coach for me,” says the other gentleman. “And I was just a-going to say,” says I—“Anybody else, my dear fellow,” interrupts the master of the house, pushing me down the passage to get out of the way—“anybody else; but I have put this man in possession of all the plate and valuables, and I cannot allow him on any consideration whatever, to leave the house. Bung, you scoundrel, go and count those forks in the breakfast-parlour instantly.” You may be sure I went laughing pretty hearty when I found it was all right. The money was paid next day, with the addition of something else for myself, and that was the best job that I (and I suspect old Fixem too) ever got in that line.

‘But this is the bright side of the picture, sir, after all,’ resumed Mr. Bung, laying aside the knowing look and flash air, with which he had repeated the previous anecdote—‘and I’m sorry to say, it’s the side one sees very, very seldom, in comparison with the dark one. The civility which money will purchase, is rarely extended to those who have none; and there’s a consolation even in being able to patch up one difficulty, to make way for another, to which very poor people are strangers. I was once put into a house down George’s-yard—that little dirty court at the back of the gas-works; and I never shall forget the misery of them people, dear me! It was a distress for half a year’s rent—two pound ten, I think. There was only two rooms in the house, and as there was no passage, the lodgers up-stairs always went through the room of the people of the house, as they passed in and out; and every time they did so—which, on the average, was about four times every quarter of an hour—they blowed up quite frightful: for their things had been seized too, and included in the inventory.

There was a little piece of enclosed dust in front of the house, with a cinder-path leading up to the door, and an open rain-water butt on one side. A dirty striped curtain, on a very slack string, hung in the window, and a little triangular bit of broken looking-glass rested on the sill inside. I suppose it was meant for the people’s use, but their appearance was so wretched, and so miserable, that I’m certain they never could have plucked up courage to look themselves in the face a second time, if they survived the fright of doing so once. There was two or three chairs, that might have been worth, in their best days, from eightpence to a shilling a-piece; a small deal table, an old corner cupboard with nothing in it, and one of those bedsteads which turn up half way, and leave the bottom legs sticking out for you to knock your head against, or hang your hat upon; no bed, no bedding. There was an old sack, by way of rug, before the fireplace, and four or five children were grovelling about, among the sand on the floor. The execution was only put in, to get ’em out of the house, for there was nothing to take to pay the expenses; and here I stopped for three days, though that was a mere form too: for, in course, I knew, and we all knew, they could never pay the money. In one of the chairs, by the side of the place where the fire ought to have been, was an old ’ooman—the ugliest and dirtiest I ever see—who sat rocking herself backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, without once stopping, except for an instant now and then, to clasp together the withered hands which, with these exceptions, she kept constantly rubbing upon her knees, just raising and depressing her fingers convulsively, in time to the rocking of the chair. On the other side sat the mother with an infant in her arms, which cried till it cried itself to sleep, and when it ’woke, cried till it cried itself off again. The old ’ooman’s voice I never heard: she seemed completely stupefied; and as to the mother’s, it would have been better if she had been so too, for misery had changed her to a devil. If you had heard how she cursed the little naked children as was rolling on the floor, and seen how savagely she struck the infant when it cried with hunger, you’d have shuddered as much as I did. There they remained all the time: the children ate a morsel of bread once or twice, and I gave ’em best part of the dinners my missis brought me, but the woman ate nothing; they never even laid on the bedstead, nor was the room swept or cleaned all the time. The neighbours were all too poor themselves to take any notice of ’em, but from what I could make out from the abuse of the woman up-stairs, it seemed the husband had been transported a few weeks before. When the time was up, the landlord and old Fixem too, got rather frightened about the family, and so they made a stir about it, and had ’em taken to the workhouse. They sent the sick couch for the old ’ooman, and Simmons took the children away at night. The old ’ooman went into the infirmary, and very soon died. The children are all in the house to this day, and very comfortable they are in comparison. As to the mother, there was no taming her at all. She had been a quiet, hard-working woman, I believe, but her misery had actually drove her wild; so after she had been sent to the house of correction half-a-dozen times, for throwing inkstands at the overseers, blaspheming the churchwardens, and smashing everybody as come near her, she burst a blood-vessel one mornin’, and died too; and a happy release it was, both for herself and the old paupers, male and female, which she used to tip over in all directions, as if they were so many skittles, and she the ball.

‘Now this was bad enough,’ resumed Mr. Bung, taking a half-step towards the door, as if to intimate that he had nearly concluded. ‘This was bad enough, but there was a sort of quiet misery—if you understand what I mean by that, sir—about a lady at one house I was put into, as touched me a good deal more. It doesn’t matter where it was exactly: indeed, I’d rather not say, but it was the same sort o’ job. I went with Fixem in the usual way—there was a year’s rent in arrear; a very small servant-girl opened the door, and three or four fine-looking little children was in the front parlour we were shown into, which was very clean, but very scantily furnished, much like the children themselves. “Bung,” says Fixem to me, in a low voice, when we were left alone for a minute, “I know something about this here family, and my opinion is, it’s no go.” “Do you think they can’t settle?” says I, quite anxiously; for I liked the looks of them children. Fixem shook his head, and was just about to reply, when the door opened, and in come a lady, as white as ever I see any one in my days, except about the eyes, which were red with crying. She walked in, as firm as I could have done; shut the door carefully after her, and sat herself down with a face as composed as if it was made of stone. “What is the matter, gentlemen?” says she, in a surprisin’ steady voice. “Is this an execution?” “It is, mum,” says Fixem. The lady looked at him as steady as ever: she didn’t seem to have understood him. “It is, mum,” says Fixem again; “this is my warrant of distress, mum,” says he, handing it over as polite as if it was a newspaper which had been bespoke arter the next gentleman.

‘The lady’s lip trembled as she took the printed paper. She cast her eye over it, and old Fixem began to explain the form, but saw she wasn’t reading it, plain enough, poor thing. “Oh, my God!” says she, suddenly a-bursting out crying, letting the warrant fall, and hiding her face in her hands. “Oh, my God! what will become of us!” The noise she made, brought in a young lady of about nineteen or twenty, who, I suppose, had been a-listening at the door, and who had got a little boy in her arms: she sat him down in the lady’s lap, without speaking, and she hugged the poor little fellow to her bosom, and cried over him, till even old Fixem put on his blue spectacles to hide the two tears, that was a-trickling down, one on each side of his dirty face. “Now, dear ma,” says the young lady, “you know how much you have borne. For all our sakes—for pa��s sake,” says she, “don’t give way to this!”—“No, no, I won’t!” says the lady, gathering herself up, hastily, and drying her eyes; “I am very foolish, but I’m better now—much better.” And then she roused herself up, went with us into every room while we took the inventory, opened all the drawers of her own accord, sorted the children’s little clothes to make the work easier; and, except doing everything in a strange sort of hurry, seemed as calm and composed as if nothing had happened. When we came down-stairs again, she hesitated a minute or two, and at last says, “Gentlemen,” says she, “I am afraid I have done wrong, and perhaps it may bring you into trouble. I secreted just now,” she says, “the only trinket I have left in the world—here it is.” So she lays down on the table a little miniature mounted in gold. “It’s a miniature,” she says, “of my poor dear father! I little thought once, that I should ever thank God for depriving me of the original, but I do, and have done for years back, most fervently. Take it away, sir,” she says, “it’s a face that never turned from me in sickness and distress, and I can hardly bear to turn from it now, when, God knows, I suffer both in no ordinary degree.” I couldn’t say nothing, but I raised my head from the inventory which I was filling up, and looked at Fixem; the old fellow nodded to me significantly, so I ran my pen through the “Mini” I had just written, and left the miniature on the table.

‘Well, sir, to make short of a long story, I was left in possession, and in possession I remained; and though I was an ignorant man, and the master of the house a clever one, I saw what he never did, but what he would give worlds now (if he had ’em) to have seen in time. I saw, sir, that his wife was wasting away, beneath cares of which she never complained, and griefs she never told. I saw that she was dying before his eyes; I knew that one exertion from him might have saved her, but he never made it. I don’t blame him: I don’t think he could rouse himself. She had so long anticipated all his wishes, and acted for him, that he was a lost man when left to himself. I used to think when I caught sight of her, in the clothes she used to wear, which looked shabby even upon her, and would have been scarcely decent on any one else, that if I was a gentleman it would wring my very heart to see the woman that was a smart and merry girl when I courted her, so altered through her love for me. Bitter cold and damp weather it was, yet, though her dress was thin, and her shoes none of the best, during the whole three days, from morning to night, she was out of doors running about to try and raise the money. The money was raised and the execution was paid out. The whole family crowded into the room where I was, when the money arrived. The father was quite happy as the inconvenience was removed—I dare say he didn’t know how; the children looked merry and cheerful again; the eldest girl was bustling about, making preparations for the first comfortable meal they had had since the distress was put in; and the mother looked pleased to see them all so. But if ever I saw death in a woman’s face, I saw it in hers that night.

‘I was right, sir,’ continued Mr. Bung, hurriedly passing his coat-sleeve over his face; ‘the family grew more prosperous, and good fortune arrived. But it was too late. Those children are motherless now, and their father would give up all he has since gained—house, home, goods, money: all that he has, or ever can have, to restore the wife he has lost.’

_____

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[jaywoods1]

Supernatural: The Father Hunt

Chapter 1: the white lady (read after prologue)

A young lady calls out "Sam!" The young woman, named Jess, comes around a corner; she is wearing a sexy-nurse costume and adjusting her hat. A photo of Mary and John is on the dresser. "Get a move on would you? We were supposed to be there, like, fifteen minutes ago." Jess walks off. "Sam, you coming or what?"

Sam Winchester pokes his head around the corner. He's in jeans and three shirts, not a costume, like Jess wanted. "Do I have to?" He wines, like a kid. "Yes! Come on, It'll be fun."

With a sigh, Sam walks into the room. 

"Where's your costume?" Jess asks, accusingly. Sam laughs and ducks his head. "You know how I feel about Halloween."

They leave for the party, which is in a bar. What Cha Gonna Do begins blaring from the speakers. The entire place is decorated for Halloween, with even a gargoyle with cobwebs and a baseball hat that says "GET NAKED". Shots are being pored, and everyone is in costume. 

Jess raises her glass as a young man, named Luis, in a ghoul costume comes over to the table where she and Sam are sitting at. "So, here's to Sam and his awesome LSAT victory!" 

Sam laughs, "All right, all right, it's not that big a deal." The three clink glasses. Jess rolls here eyes. "Yeah, he acts all humble, but he scored a one seventy-four." She tells as Sam and Luis drink their shots. "Is that good?" Luis asks, confused. Jess raises her eyebrows, surprised her friend doesn't know. "Scary good." Jess then gulps down her shot.

"There you go! You are a first-round draft pick, you can go to any law school you want!" Luis says, catching on. "Actually, I've got an interview hereon Monday. If it goes okay I think I got a shot at a full ride next year." Sam says, hope creeping into his voice. Jess pats him on the back. "Hey, it's gonna go great." Sam snorts. "It better."

"How does it feel to be the "golden boy" of your family?" Luis asks. Sam winces. "Ah, they don't actually know." "Why not? I would be gloating like no tomorrow?" Confusion evident in Luis's voice. "Because we're not exactly the Brady's." He says, the tone saying that the conversation is over. 

"And I'm not exactly the Huxtables." Luis says jokingly. "More shots?" "No." Jess and Sam reply in unison. Luis shrugs and goes up to the bar anyways. 

Jess smiles at Sam. "No, seriously. I'm proud of you. And you're gonna knock 'em dead on Monday and you're gonna get that full ride. I know it." Sam smiles at his girlfriend. "What would I do without you?" "Crash and burn." She says laughing, then pulls him in for a kiss.

Later, after they return to their apartment, the two of them lie in their bed, asleep back to back, with Jess shifting around a little. A sound reaches their room from downstairs, almost like a window opening, causing Sam to wake up. He leaves the room, and begins sneaking downstairs. 

He sees a window that was open, even though he was sure it had been closed earlier. Footsteps come padding across the floor, and he hears the string of beads down the hall get pushed. Sam moves to another part of the apartment and waits, silently. Two figures enter the room, and Sam lunges forward and grabs the more masculine form by the shoulder. The man knocks his arm away and aims a strike at him, which Sam narrowly avoids. The female figure grabs Sam's arm, swings him around, and shoves him back. Sam kicks at her, but is blocked, then pushed back into another room. The light is brighter in that room, so the three get glimpses of each others faces. The man elbows him in the face, and Sam kicks at his head. The man ducks, and swings, which Sam blocks. Obviously annoyed, the woman walks in-between the two and shoves them to the floor.

"Enough both of you." 

Sam breaths hard, noting that her voice sounds familiar.  "Jay, Dean?" His two siblings laugh. "You scared the crap out of me." He says, indignified. "That's 'cause you're out of practice." Dean says standing up before giving his baby brother a hand. He grabs Dean's hand and yanks, slamming his heel into his back, knocking him to the floor. "Or not." Dean groans. Sam taps Dean twice where he's holding him. "Alright, get off of him." Jay says, yanking her older brother by five months off of him, being stronger than most would think despite her petit stature. 

Sam takes a look at his siblings. Dean looks practically the same, with his short hair, barest hints of stubble and clothing, along with his amulet. Jay has longer brown hair, with jeans, a leather jacket with patches from different places and Taylor Swift Fearless tee underneath, her blue eyes shining with amusement, while Dean's green ones are agitated. 

Sam pulls his older brother off of the floor and asks "What the hell are the two of you doing here?" "Well, I was looking for a beer." Dean says jokingly, putting his hand on his brother, shanking once, then letting go. "What the hell are you actually doing here?" Sam asks exasperated. "Alright, fine. We gotta talk." He says, while Jay begins to look around. "Uh, the phone?" Sam asks. "Wait, you didn't even try calling him before we broke into his place?" Jay asks her older brother. "Um, would he have picked up?" She rolls her eyes and smacks him on the head. "OW!" "Shut up you big baby. Sorry 'bout this Sam, I thought he called."

Jess turns on the light, as the fight had woken her up. She's in her sleep wear, short shorts and a smurf crop top. 

"Sam?" The three turn their heads in unison. "Jess, hey, this is my older brother Dean and my younger sister Jaylin-" "But I go by Jay, seriously never call me Jaylin. But Imma guess your my brother's girlfriend?" Jess nods, while Dean looks at her appreciatively. "Nice job Sam, I never expected it." Jay says, before turning to the other girl. "Does he treat you right, is he good, he has been eating enough righ-" Looking bewildered, Jess interrupts the short girl. "Wait, you siblings Jay and Dean?" Sam nods, while Jess smiles at the girl, who was rapid firing questions about her brother. Dean grins and moves closer.

"Oh, I love the Smurfs. You know, I gotta tell you. You are completely out of my brother's league." Jay stares at her brother in abject horror. "Um, just let me go put something on." Jess turns to go but Deans voice stops her. "No, no, no, I wouldn't dream of it. Seriously." Dean goes back over to Sam without taking his eyes off of her, while Sam's become stony, the two of them completely missing Jay walking over. SMACK. "OW, that did hurt!" "Currently have zero fucks to give. She Sam's fucking girlfriend asshole!" She then turns to Jess. "I am so sorry about him, um, but we need to quick borrow your boyfriend, talk about some family stuff. Nice to meet you though."

"No." Sam says, steel in his voice. "No, whatever you want to say, you can say it in front of her." Dean and Jay glance at each other.

Dean shrugs. "Okay." He stars at them both in the eyes. "Dad hasn't been home in a few days." Sam rolls his eyes. "So, he's working overtime on a Miller Time shift. He'll stumble back in sooner or later." Dean takes a deep breath. "Dad's on a hunting trip. And he hasn't been home in a few days." Silence fills the air, but Jay then ruins it. "Of course, I couldn't give two fucks about the man, but Dean insisted on coming to get you." Sam pinches his noes.

"Jess, please excuse us. We have to go outside."

The three siblings head downstairs after Sam pulls on jeans and a hoodie. "I mean, come on man. You can't just break in, middle of the night, and expect me to hit the road with you." "I would like to point out that none of this was my idea. I was all for letting you continue to live your life, in fact I was all set to join come the new school year." Jay whispers in her brothers ear. Sam smiles at her. The two of them had always been the closest. Dean growled. 

"Your not hearing me Sammy. Dad's missing, and I need you to help me find him." "You remember the poltergeist in Amherst? Or the Devil's Gates in Clifton? He was missing then, too. He's always missing, and he's always fine." Dean looks to his sister for support. "Come on Jaybird, even you got to admit that something smells fishy." Jay raises her eyebrow. "You sure it's not the McDonalds filet-o-fish you got dared into eating yesterday? Like I said, I don't give a shit about what happens to the man." "Wait, you ate a Filet-O-Fish?" Sam says laughing. Dean gives up, and turns back to his brother. "Not for this long. Now are you coming or what?" He says, cutting through the laughter. 

"I'm not. And Jay, you can stay if you want to as well." Her face begins to light up with hope, until she sees Deans and it comes down crashing hard. She kicks a rock. "I can't leave. After you left, I promised I would stay for two more years at least." Dean looks relieved as he turs to his brother. "Why not?" Sam clenches his fists. "Because I swore I was done hunting, for good." "Come on. It wasn't easy, but it wasn't that bad." Dean replies as he starts heading back downstairs, Sam and Jay following him. "Yeah? When I told Dad I was scared of the thing in my closet, he gave me a .45." Dean stares at him bewildered. "Well, what was he supposed to do?" "I was nine years old! He was supposed to say, don't be afraid of the dark." "Don't be afraid of the dark? Are you kidding me? Of course you should be afraid of the dark. You know what's out there." "Yeah, I know, but still. The way we grew up, after Mom was killed, and Dad's obsession to find the thing that killed her, and with Ja-" He turns to his sister. "Jay, go back to the apartment. She clenches her fists in out rage. "Hell no, I may be younger than you, but not by much, I am more than-" Jay now." She flinches, but barely so they didn't catch her. "Fine." She mumbles, before making her way back up to chat with Jess. 

Sam turns back to his brother. "You don't know what he did to her, hell, I don't fully know what he did to her, but dad did something to Jay. I've seen the marks he gave her when they went off alone. It was something we'd do to a demon, but amplified. I couldn't even tell what half the marks were, but there were burns, whip marks, things that looked like he hands and feet had been nailed to something. She always healed to fast, I didn't mention anything, but looking back, she was terrified of the man. It was like she was also to blame for moms death, as much as that creature, but we still haven't even found the damn thing. So, we kill what ever we do find, and her very clearly tortures our sister in his rage, oh, and might I mention that I heard him one time talking to something, a demon I think, the first one we ever encountered. He said, where is the bastard that killed my wife, and why was I cursed with one of you filthy creatures as a daughter. If she goes, will he come forward? I didn't understand, but I ran straight to Jay, I mean, I was 7, I had just found out about the life."

Dean threw his hands up in exasperation. "Maybe he was harder on Jay because a week after she was born, the thing came, but still. We save a lot of people doing what we do." Sam stared at his brother directly in his eyes for a moment before speaking. "You think Mom would have wanted this for us?"

Dean slammed the door open so loudly the two girls above could hear it. "Is he usually like that?" Jess asks. "Oh boy, you have no idea."

The brothers make their way to the parking lot, continuing their conversation. 

"The weapons training, melting silver into bullets, man Dean, we were raised like warriors."

They cross the parking lot to Impala that John had given to Dean.

"So what are you gonna do? You're just gonna live some normal, apple pie life? Is that it?" "No, not normal. Safe. And hopefully next year Jay'll join me, she has the grades for it." Dean gets pissed at that statement. "So that's why you ran away. And if you were so desperate to get away from us, why take Jay with you?" "So she can have a damn happy life. You saw her face when I said she could stay, she wanted to, but you made her damn well promise not to leave." Dean looks away. "Besides, it was just collage. It was dad who said if I was going to stay gone."

Dean calms his anger. "Yeah, well, Dad's in real trouble right now. If he's not dead already. I can feel it. Jay's already coming, you know she doesn't break promises." "Yeah, that's why she never should have made it in the first place." Sam mumbles under his breath, so Dean couldn't hear it. Dean mistakes his as a decision not to go. "I love Jaybird to death, but she's not the best on hunts, you know that, she's too compassionate. We can't do this alone." Sam gets angry at that. "Yes, you can, and Jay's fine on hunts." "Yeah, well, I don't want to." Sam sighs, knowing there's not out to this.

"What was he hunting?" 

Dean opens the trunk of the Impala, a stupid grin on his face, then the spare tire trunk, or in their case, arsenal. He props it open with a shotgun and riffles through the clutter. "Now where the hell did I put it?" He asks himself. "So when Dad left, why didn't you and Jay go with him?" Sam asks. "I was working my own gig. This, uh, voodoo thing, down in New Orleans, and Dad said for Jay to go with me, something about slowing him down." "Dad let you go on a hunting trip by yourself?" "A. I had Jay, though she wasn't much help, B. I'm 26 dude." He then pulls some papers out of a folder. "All right, here we go. So Dad was checking out this two-lane blacktop just outside of Jericho, California. About a month ago, this guy went missing." Dean says, passing a paper over to Sam, "They found his car, but he vanished. Completely MIA." The paper is a printout of an article from the Jericho Herald, headlined "Centennial Highway Disappearance" and dated Sept. 19th 2005; it has a man's picture, captioned "Andrew Carey MISSING". Sam reads it and glances up.

"So, maybe he was kidnapped?" Dean smirks, prepared for this. "Yeah. Well, here's another one in April." He says, tossing down another Jericho Herald article for each date he mentions. "Another one in December 'oh-four, 'oh-three, 'ninety-eight, 'ninety-two, ten of them over the past twenty years." He grabs the article back from Sam and picks up the rest of the stack, putting them back in the folder. "All men, all the same five-mile stretch of road." Sam glances at his brother. "How much of this did Jay scrounge up?" Dean blushes. "I've no idea what you mean, anyways." He pulls out a bag from the arsenal. "It started happening more and more, so Dad went to go dig around. That was about three weeks ago. I hadn't heard from him since, which is bad enough." He then grabs a hand-held tape recorder. "Then I get this voicemail yesterday."

He presses play, and the recording is staticky, the signal was clearly breaking up, but it was definitely John.

"Dean...something big is starting to happen...I need to try and figure out what's going on. It may... Be very careful, Dean. We're all in danger." Static then cuts through, but Sam catches something that sounds like Don't trust Jay, she's dangerous, but he doesn't mention it. Dean presses stop.

"You know there's EVP on that?" "Not bad, Sammy. Kinda like riding a bike, isn't it?" Sam shakes his head. "All right. I slowed the message down, I ran it through a gold wave, took out the hiss, and this is what I got." He presses play again. A woman's voice speaks. "I can never go home..." before dean presses stop. "Never go home..." Sam says, his mind running through possibilities. 

Dean drops the recorder, puts down the shotgun and stands straight, shutting the trunk and leaning on it. "You know, in almost two years I've never bothered you, never asked you for a thing. Jay even stayed away, and you know how hard that is." Sam hides a smirk, knowing that they have a weekly call, before looking away. He sighs, "All right. I'll go. I'll help you find him." Dean nods, happy that his brother is back, when Sam raises his hand. "But I have to get back first thing Monday, and then Jay's promise is void, she can stay here is she wants. Just wait here." 

Sam turns to go back to the apartment, knowing Dean won't be happy. He turns back when Dean speaks, but it's not about Jay. "What's first thing Monday?" Sam sighs "I have this...I have an interview." "What, a job interview? Skip it." Dean says, bewildered about why a job interview was so important. "It's a law school interview, and it's my whole future on a plate." Dean blinks. "Law school?" Dean then smirks. "Yeah, Jay and I always talked about what we wanted to be, and this was always mine. Jay wanted to be a therapist. So, we have a deal or what?" Dean says nothing.

Back at the apartment, Sam packs a duffle bag. He pulls out a large hook-shaped knife and slides it inside. Jess walks in, after a fun time chatting with his younger sister. "Wait, you're taking off?" Sam looks up at her. "Is this about your dad? Is he all right?" Yeah. You know, just a little family drama." Sam goes over to the dresser and turns on the lamp atop it. "Jess, when I get back, would you be alright if Jay stayed here for a bit?" "Yes of course, but why?" Sam glances at her. "Don't tell her I told you this, she'd be after my head, but our dad, he kind of hates her, blames her for our moms death. I don't know exactly what he does but it's bad." Jess nods. "Of course she can stay, besides, from what you told me, she'll follow you just as easily. Now, your brother said your dad was on some kind of hunting trip." 

Sam breaths a sigh of relief at the change in subject. "Oh, yeah, he's just deer hunting up at the cabin, he's probably got Jim, Jack, and José along with him. I'm just going to go bring him back." Jess's eyebrows raised at all the names that started with j. "What about the interview?" "I'll make the interview. This is only for a couple days." Sam goes around the bed. Jess gets up and follows. "Sam, I mean, please." Sam stops and turns. "Just stop for a second. You sure you're okay?" Sam laughs a little. "I'm fine." "It's just...you won't even talk about your family except for Jay. And now you're taking off in the middle of the night to spend a weekend with them? Especially after what you just told me, you think it's a good idea? And with Monday coming up, which is kind of a huge deal." "Hey. Everything's going to be okay. I'll be back in time, I promise." He kisses her on the cheek and leaves. Jess sighs, wishing he had told her where her was going.

In Jericho, California, The Eagles of Death Metal's "Speaking in Tongues" plays. A young man named Troy, is driving down the highway, talking on his cell phone. 

"Amy, I can't come over tonight. Because I've got work in the morning, that's why. ...Yeah, okay, I miss it and my dad's gonna have my ass." A high-pitched whine sounds. Troy looks over and sees a woman in a white dress on the side of the road. She's moving as though dancing; she flickers, and for a moment she's gone.

"Hey, ah, Amy, let me call you back?" Troy then tries several times to turn off the radio, which is flickering, but nothing happens. Troy pulls up next to the woman, whose dress is torn in several places, and stops, leaning across the shotgun seat. "Car trouble or something?" He asks, and after a long pause the woman responds. "Take me home?" Troy opens the passenger door and gestures to her. "Sure, get in." The woman, who is barefoot, climbs in.

"So, where do you live?" Troy asks. "At the end of Breckenridge Road." Troy nods before speaking. "You coming from a Halloween party or something?" The woman's dress is very low-cut. He notices, stares, and looks away, laughing nervously. "You know, a girl like you really shouldn't be alone out here." She looks at him mournfully, seductively, and pulls her skirt up over her thigh. "I'm with you." Troy looks away, but the woman takes his chin and turns his face towards her. 

"Do you think I'm pretty?" He nods, eyes stuck on her cleavage. "Uh...huh" "Will you come home with me?" "Um. Hell yeah." He continues driving and they pull up to an old abandoned house at the end of a road. The woman stares at it sadly. "Come on. You don't live here." Troy says, scoffing. "I can never go home." The woman stated mournfully. "What are you talking about? Nobody even lives here. Where do you live?"

He turns, but she's gone. He checks the back seat, also empty, and gets out of the car, nervous. "That's good. Joke's over, okay? You want me to leave?" He said, shouting to the wind. He looks around: no signs of life except crickets. He walks towards the house, hoping to get there before his nerve fails him. 

"Hello? Hello?" There's a picture of the woman and two children inside the house, but the picture is covered in dust.

Troy peers through the hole in the screen door, when a bird flies at his face, scaring him into falling over. He yells, leaps to his feet, and runs back to the car. He gets in and drives like there was no tomorrow. He looks behind him, and no one's there, and then in the rearview mirror. The woman is in the back seat. Troy screams like the devil has a hand on his soul and drives straight through a "Bridge Closed" sign, stopping about halfway across the bridge. He screams once more, but then is silent as blood spatters the windows.

At a gas station, Dean comes out to the Impala carrying junk food, with Sam in the passenger seat, rifling through a box of tapes, and Jay sprawled across the back seats. "Hey!" Dean shouts through the window. "You two want breakfast? I got your favourite Jay, one honey bun, one cinnamon sugar vanilla drizzle pretzel and a Butterfinger." "No thanks." Sam says, raising his eyebrow at his sisters sugary breakfast. Jay notices his look. "Hey, there is a high chance I might die everyday with this life. Let me indulge." Sam smirks as Dean climbs into the drives seat. "So Dean, how did you pay for all this stuff? You all still running credit card scams?" Sam asks. "Yeah, well, hunting ain't exactly a pro ball career." Jay looks up. "I mean, I pick pocket assholes, so at least mine gives people their just deserts." Sam stares at her. "While that is probably very therapeutic, it's no ri-" "One of the guys was hitting on me." 

"...You took everything right." 

"And punched him in the face."

"Well, anyways, all we do is apply. It's not our fault they send us the cards." Dean says, defending his way of getting money. "Yeah? And what names did you write on the application this time?" Sam asks, eyebrow raised. "Uh, Burt Aframian." Dean puts his soda and chips down. "And his son Hector. Scored two cards out of the deal." Dean closes the door while Sam smacks his forehead. "That sounds about right. I swear, man, you've gotta update your cassette tape collection." Dean looks at him outraged, fully intent on defending his music when Jay speaks up. "I got an MP3 player for my music. Crank it all the way up, you can't even hear the trash." "Why? Why Jay must you tear my heart apart like this?" Sam looks at Dean. "Well, for one, they're cassette tapes. And two." He holds up the tapes. "Jay's right. Black Sabbath? Motorhead? Metallica?" Dean snags the Metallica one from Sam. "It's the greatest hits of mullet rock." "This is why I invested in the headphones since, house rules, driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole." Jay says as Dean pops in the tape. "That includes backseat little missy." "Hey, I'm not that short!" "You can barely reach the fourth shelf at Walmart!" 

The two continue bickering as Dean starts driving down the highway.

They drive past a sign that says "JERICHO 7", while the music continues to play and Jay has her eyes closed listening to Fearless. Ever since her first album had come out she was hooked. She had even snuck out to go see the concert, even though she was brutally punished by her father. Jay sighs quietly, knowing that the other two have no idea about what she goes through. The constant beating, to the attempts at killing her, it's enough to make anyone want to stop living, but she continued on for her brothers, since she knew Sam at least would be distraught if she killed herself. Ever since her mom died, her dad believed that she was a demon in disguise, especially considering she popped out of an only five month pregnancy perfectly health, then a week later, her mother had died. The fact that she survived everything didn't help this theory, even though all the normal stuff didn't work.

"Thank you." Sam says closing his phone and Jay slides her headphones off to listen in. "All right. So, there's no one matching Dad at the hospital or morgue, so that's something, I guess." Dean glances over at him, then back at the road. At a bridge ahead of them, there are two police cars and several officers. "Hey, check it out." Dean pulls over and they take a long look before he turns off the engine. He opens the glove compartment and pulls out a box full of ID cards with all their faces: visible ones include FBI and DEA. He picks one out and grins at Sam, who stares. "Let's go." He says, passing them out, including to Jay.

They get out of the car onto the bridge where the lead deputy, deputy Jaffe from his nametag, leans over the railing to yell down to two men in wetsuits who were poking around the river. "You guys find anything?" He calls down, and the two men respond. "No! Nothing!" He turns back to the car in the middle of the bridge and another deputy, deputy Hein, is at the driver's side looking around inside the car. "No sign of struggle, no footprints, no fingerprints. Spotless. It's almost too clean."

The sibling walk over, acting like they belong their, with Jay, filing every little detail away with her eidetic memory for later. "So, this kid Troy. He's dating your daughter, isn't he?" Jaffe asks Hein. "Yeah." "How's Amy doing?" "She's putting up missing posters downtown." Jay files this away as Dean speaks up. "You fellas had another one like this just last month, didn't you?"

Jaffe looks up when Dean starts talking and straightens up to talk to him. "And who are you?" Dean flashes his badge." Federal marshals" The deputy frowns. "Little young to marshals aren't you. 'Specially the girl, she can't be older than sixteen." Jay looks at him with outrage. "As a matter of fact deputy, I'm 22. I am aware that most are older than me, and I look younger and weaker, but I am more than capable than most men twice my age. Besides, you only have to 21 to be a marshal." The deputy looks away embarrassed. Dean walks over to the car to begin inspecting it. "You did have another one just like this, correct?" 

"Yeah, that's right. About a mile up the road. There've been others before that." "So, this victim, you knew him?" Sam jumps in. Jaffe nods. "Towns like this, everybody knows everybody." Dean circles the car. "Any connection between the victims, besides that they're all men?" "No. Not so far as we can tell." Jay speaks up as Sam walks over to Dean. "So, what's the theory?" "Honestly, we don't know. Serial murder? Kidnapping ring?" She shakes her head. "If it was a serial killer there would still be traces of blood for ones like this. Killings this random are acts of mental breaks, not planning. There would still be blood maybe even the murder weapon. As for kidnapping, not a bad one, but they're probably human traffickers if you haven't gotten a ransom note for any of them."

The deputy looks minorly horrified, so Dean speaks up. "Well, that is exactly the kind of crack police work I'd expect out of you guys, good job." Sam stomps on his foot to stop him, slightly too late. "Thank you for your time." He says as they begin walking away. Jay nods to them. "Gentlemen."

Jaffe watches them go. Sam smacks him on the head. "Ow, hey, what was that for?" "You can't talk to the police like that dumbass!" Dean looks at him and moves in front, forcing Sam to stop walking. "Come on. They don't really know what's going on. We're all alone on this. I mean, if we're going to find Dad we've got to get to the bottom of this thing ourselves." "I still don't give a fuck about what happens to him." Jay says under her breath, continuing to the car and dropping into the back seat. She watches as Sam clears his throat and looks over Dean's shoulder. He turns. It's a sheriff, Peirce by the look of it, and two FBI agents. Jay gets reminiscent of the time when she wanted to work for the FBI. 

"Can I help you boys?" The sheriff asks Sam and Dean. "No, sir, we were just leaving." As the agents walk past Dean, he nods at each of them. "Agent Mulder. Agent Scully." Dean and Sam head past the sheriff, who turns to watch them go, both of them praying to make it out in time before they relies that they weren't actual agents.

As the trio pass the Highland Movie Theater, the marquee reads: EMERGENCY TOWN HALL MEETING SUNDAY 8 PM BE SAFE OUT THERE

They see a young woman tacking up posters with Troy's face and the caption "MISSING TROY SQUIRE". "I'll bet you that's her." "Yeah." Dean and Sam start to approach but Jay stops them. "I'll go talk to her, she's more likely to talk to me, who looks less threatening. "We don't look threatening!" Dean cries out. Jay decides to let the raised eyebrow speak for itself.

"Excuse me, are you Amy?" She glances down at Jay. "Yeah." "Well, I'm with the federal marshals, agent Sparrow. You were dating Troy right?" She nods, eyes still tinted red from crying. Another woman walks up and puts her arm around Amy. "You're an agent? You look too-" "Young, I know. I get that a lot. I'm 22 though. I'd like to ask your friend some questions about her missing boyfriend, your welcome to come miss...?" "Rachel."

They walk to a diner and sit down in a booth. "I was on the phone with Troy. He was driving home. He said he would call me right back, and...he never did." Jay nods, "He didn't say anything strange, or out of the ordinary?" Amy shakes her head. "No. Nothing I can remember." "Nice neckless." Amy holds the pendant she's wearing, a pentagram in a circle, and looks down at it. "Troy gave it to me. Mostly to scare my parents, you know, with all that devil stuff." Amy laughs, and Jay smiles. "I have one too." She pulls it out from under her shirt. "Believe it or not, it actually, it means just the opposite. A pentagram is protection against evil. Really powerful, supposedly powerful enough to stop demon prevention. I mean, if you believe in that kind of thing." At the strange looks Jay laughed. "I was bored in a library and I have an eidetic memory. You'd be amazed at half the stuff I know." After the laughter fades Jay turns serious. "Here's the deal, ladies. The way Troy disappeared, something's not right. When this happens, and yes, it's happened before, it usually ends in a disaster, so if you've heard anything..." 

Amy and Rachel look at each other. "What is it?" "Well, it's just... I mean, with all these guys going missing, people talk." Rachel says. "It may sound odd, but please tell me anyways. All rumors are based in some sort of truth." "It's kind of this local legend. This one girl? She got murdered out on Centennial, like decades ago, and, well, supposedly she's still out there." Jay nods. "She hitchhikes, and whoever picks her up? Well, they disappear forever." "Thank you for your time. If you think of anything else, no matter what, don't hesitate to call." Jay says, sliding over a business card with her number on it. 

Jay meets up with the other two at a library. Dean opens up a web browser to the archive search page for the Jericho Herald. The words "Female Murder Hitchhiking" get typed into the search box, but when he clicks GO; the screen tells him there are "(0) Result". He replaces "Hitchhiking" with "Centennial Highway" with the same response. Sam is sitting next to him, watching, while Jay is across, on her personal laptop, which she guards with her life, along with her MP3 player and headphones.

"Let me try." Sam says. "I got it." Dean says frustrated. Sam is about to yank him out of the seat when Jay speaks up. "I got something." "What is it?" They ask in unison. "Well, I was thinking, what if it's not murder, but suicide. I found this article dated April 25, 1981. Listen up: 

A local woman's drowning death was ruled a suicide, the county Sheriff's Department said earlier today. Constance Welch, 24, of 4636 Breckenridge Road, leapt off Sylvania Bridge, at mile 33 of Centennial Highway, and subsequently drowned last night. Deputy J. Pierce told reporters that, hours before her death, Ms. Welch logged a call with 911 emergency services. In a panicked tone, Ms. Welch described how she found her two young children, 5 and 6, in the bathtub, after leaving them alone for several [minutes]. This is her husband now. "What happened to my children was a terrible accident. And it must have been too much for my wife. Our babies were gone, and Constance just couldn't bear it," said husband Joseph Welch. "Now I ask that you all please respect my privacy during this trying time." At the time of the children's death and Ms. Welch's subsequent suicide, Mr. Welch was at the Frontier auto salvage yard, where he works the graveyard shift as associate manager." Connie might have been quiet, but she was the sweetest, most caring girl I ever knew," said Deanna Kripke, a neighbor. "She just doted on those children."

"1981. Constance Welch, twenty-four years old, jumps off Sylvania Bridge, drowns in the river. An hour before they found her, she calls 911. Apparently her two little kids are in the bathtub. She leaves them alone for a minute, and when she comes back, they aren't breathing. Both die." She pulls up a picture. "And as I'm sure you figured out, same bridge Troy's car was found." 

The three of them walk to the bridge. The police and car are gone. "So, this is where Constance took the swan dive?" Dean asks. "Yep, well more accurately, she was closer to the edge, but I'm pretty sure you don't want to get that close." Jay said. "You think Dad would have been here?" Sam asks, looking at his brother. "Well, he's chasing the same story and we're chasing him." Dean replies, walking away. "Okay, so now what?" "Now we keep digging until we find him. Might take a while." Sam stops. "Dean, I told you, I've gotta get back by Monday-" Dean turns around. "Monday. Right. The interview." "Yeah." "Yeah, I forgot. You're really serious about this, aren't you? You think you're just going to become some lawyer? Marry your girl?" "Maybe. Why not?" "Does Jessica know the truth about you? I mean, does she know about the things you've done?" Sam steps closer. "No, and she's not ever going to know." "Well, that's healthy. You can pretend all you want, Sammy. But sooner or later you're going to have to face up to who you really are." Dean turns around and continues walking. "And who's that?" "You're one of us." Sam runs to get in front of Dean. "No. I'm not like you. This is not going to be my life." "You have a responsibility to-" "To Dad? And his crusade? If it weren't for pictures I wouldn't even know what Mom looks like. And what difference would it make? Even if we do find the thing that killed her, Mom's gone. And she isn't coming back, so he's going crazy and taking his anger out on-" 

Dean grabs Sam by the collar and shoves him up against the rail. "Don't talk about her like that!" Jay yanks her brother back. "Enough, both of you!" Dean snorts and lets Sam go. "You don't get to talk, you're gonna run away too." He releases Sam and walks away, only to see Constance standing at the edge of the bridge. "Sam, Jay." They come to stand next to Dean. Constance looks over at them, then steps forward off the edge. They run to the railing and look over. "Where'd she go?" "Ghost remember?" Jay says.

Behind them, the Impala's engine starts and its headlights come on. They turn to look. "What the-" "Who's driving your car?" Dean pulls the keys out of his pocket and jingles them. "Like I said, ghost." Jay repeats. Sam glances at them, then the car jerks into motion, heading straight for them. "Dean, Jay, go, go!" The car is moving faster than they are; when it gets too close,  They dive over the railing and the car comes to a halt.

Jay catches herself on the side of the bridge, but doesn't see her brothers anywhere.

"Sam, Dean!" Below, the two crawl out of the muddy river. "What?" The call up. "You okay?" They both show an A-OK sign and she breaths a sigh of relief. Jay pulls herself up and runs over to them.

They make it back to the Impala, and after checking the trunk, Dean shuts the hood. "Your car all right?" Sam asks. "Yeah, whatever she did to it, seems all right now. That Constance chick, what a bitch!" Jay wacks him on the head. "Constance just lot her two children and committed suicide, so she is stuck like that. Give the poor woman a break." "Well, she doesn't want us digging around, that's for sure. So where's the job go from here, genius?" Sam asks. Sam settles on the hood next to Dean while Jay stays away. "Personally I recommend a shower. You both smell like toilet."

The next day, they pull up to a motel. "One room please." Dean asks the clerk, looking filthy, with an equally filthy Sam behind him, while Jay is hiding her embarrasses face. The clerk picks up the card, which has the name Hector Aframian. "You guys having a reunion or something?" "What do you mean?" Sam asks, puzzled. "I had another guy, Burt Aframian. He came and bought out a room for the whole month." Jay steps forward. "Could you please show us his room?" 

The motel door swings open, the clerk having left after showing them the room and giving them their key. Jay hides the picks she just used and stands up. Dean and Sam are just outside, playing lookout, until Jay reaches out of the room to grab their shoulders and yank them inside, before closing the door behind them. They look around-every vertical surface has papers pinned to it: maps, newspaper clippings, pictures, notes. There are books on the desk and assorted junk on the floor and bed, including something with a hazardous-materials symbol.

"Well, this is no doubt Dad's room." Jay says after a glance around. 

Dean turns on a light by the bed and picks up a half-eaten hamburger sitting there, while Sam and Jay step over a line of salt on the floor. He sniffs the burger and recoils. "I don't think he's been here for a couple days at least." Jay crouches down and fingers the salt. "Salt, cats-eye shells...he was worried. Trying to keep something from coming in." She then looks closer at the walls. "Centennial Highway victims." Sam nods. The victims seen on the wall include Mark somebody, William Durrell, Scott Nifong who disappeared in 1987 at age 25, and somebody Parks. Mark, Durrell, and Nifong are all white males, judging by the photos. 

"I don't get it. I mean, different men, different jobs, ages, ethnicities. There's always a connection, but what do these guys have in common?" Jay mutters, trying to figure out a profile. She had snuck into a lecture given by the BAU a few years back, and had continued to read up on it. Sam crosses over. While Sam and Dean looks at the papers taped to the other walls, Jay moves over to the other wall where there's something about the Bell Witch, two people being burned alive, a skeletal person blowing a horn at several scared people with the note "MORTIS DANSE", a column about "Devils + Demons", another about "Sirens, Witches, the possessed", a wooden pentacle, and a note that says "Woman in White" above a printout of the Jericho Herald article on Constance's suicide.

"Guys, dad figured it out." The two look over at her. "What do you mean." Jay points to the note above the article. "She's a Woman in White." Dean glances over "All right, so if we're dealing with a woman in white, Dad would have found the corpse and destroyed it." Jay shakes her head. "Not unless has another weakness." Dean frowns. "Well, Dad would want to make sure, he'd dig her up. Does it say where she's buried?" "It doesn't say, but her husband probably does. His name is Joseph Welch, he works at Frontier auto salvage yard, and I bet five bucks he's there right now, um, but you two get cleaned up first, I'll try and find the address."

Dean walks to John's shower, while Sam heads to theirs, but stops. 

"Hey, Dean?" Dean stops and turns around. "What I said earlier, about Mom and Dad, I'm sorry." Dean holds up a hand to stop his brothers rambling. "No chick-flick moments." Sam laughs. "Alright, bitch." "Jerk." "The both of you are idiots, not please go take a shower before your river fumes cause me to pass out." The two of them laugh and disappear to their respective showers. Jay notices something on the night table, a framed photograph of John sitting on the hood of the Impala next to a younger Dean with a younger Sam on his lap, but there is a noticeable lack of Jay. She smiles sadly, knowing that no matter what, Sam would always have a place here, but she never would.

Later Dean runs out to grab something to eat while Sam sits on bed listening to a voicemail from Jess. Jay plops down next to him and gives him a hug. "Don't worry, we'll make it back in time."

Outside Dean notices the deputies approaching him and calls Sam. "What?" "Dude, five-oh, grab Jay and take off." "What about you?" "Uh, they kinda spotted me. Go find Dad." Dean hangs up the phone as the deputies approach. He turns and grins at them. "Problem, officers?" Jaffe speaks first. "Where're your partners?" "Partners? What, what partners?" Dean says, playing dumb. Jaffe glances over his shoulder and jerks his thumb towards the motel room. Hein heads over there and Dean begins to fidgets. "So. Fake US Marshal. Fake credit cards. You got anything that's real?" "My boobs." Dean sasses while grinning, only for Jaffe to slam him onto the hood and start reading him his rights.

In the sheriffs office, Dean is sitting there, when sheriff Pierce enters the room, carrying a box. He sets the box on the table and goes around to face Dean across it. "So you want to give us your real name?" "I told you, it's Nugent. Ted Nugent." "I'm not sure you realize just how much trouble you're in here." The sheriff said, getting pissed at Dean cheekiness. "We talkin', like, misdemeanor kind of trouble or, uh, squeal like a pig trouble?" The sheriff stared at him. "You got the faces of ten missing persons taped to your wall, along with a whole lot of satanic mumbo jumbo. Boy, you are officially a suspect." Dean raised an eyebrow at the absurdity of it. "That makes sense. Because when the first one went missing in '82 I was three." "I know you've got partners. One of 'em's an older guy. Maybe he started the whole thing. So tell me. Dean." The sheriff tosses a brown leather-covered journal onto the table. "This his?" Dean stares at it until the sheriff flips it open, and Dean sees that it's filled with newspaper clippings, notes, and pictures, just like what's on the walls of John's motel room. "I thought that might be your name. See, I leafed through this. What little I could make out-I mean, it's nine kinds of crazy, but then I found this too." He points to something and Dean leans forward to read it: DEAN 35-111. It's circled and there's nothing else on the page. "Now. You're stayin' right here till you tell me exactly what the hell that means." Dean looks back up at the sheriff. 

Sam and Jay are standing outside of the Welch house. "Sam, you stay here and try and figure out how to rescue Dean. I'll go talk to the man, he's more inclined to listen to me anyways. You know, with me being a small petite woman." Sam sighed and agreed.

Jay goes up to a door with a grimy glass window and knocks on it. An old man, which Jay presumes is Joseph Welch answers. "Hi. Are you Joseph Welch?" "Yeah." "Please come walk with me." The man nods, and the two of them begin walking down the driveway. Jay showed him the picture of John and asked him if he had seen him. "Yeah, he was older, but that's him." He said, handing back the photo. "He came by three or four days ago. Said he was a reporter." "That's right. We're working on a story together." "Well, I don't know what the hell kinda story you're working on. The questions he asked me?" Jay smiled reassuringly. "I know they were probably strange, they were about you wife, Constance, right?" "He asked me where she was buried." "Yes, and where's that again?" "What, I gotta go through this twice?" "Just fact checking, the other guy's started losing his memory." "That makes sense. She's in a plot. Behind my old place over on Breckenridge." "Why did you move?" Jay asked gently. "I'm not gonna live in the house where my children died." Jay stops walking. "Mr. Welch, did you ever marry again?" "No way. Constance, she was the love of my life. Prettiest woman I ever known." "So you had a happy marriage?" Joseph hesitated, and Jays eyes narrowed. "Definitely" "Well, that should do it. Thanks for your time." Jay turns to go then stops. 

"Mr. Welch, the newspaper, it's a paranormal one, so please, bare with me. Did you ever hear of a woman in white?" Joseph turns around. "A what?" "A woman in white. Or sometimes weeping woman?" He just stares, so Jay continued. "It's a ghost story. Well, it's more of a phenomenon, really." When he doesn't respond, Jay tries to explain better. "Um, they're spirits. They've been sighted for hundreds of years, dozens of places, in Hawaii, Mexico, lately in Arizona, Indiana. All these are different women, but all share the same story." "Girl, I don't care much for nonsense or your newspaper." "See, when they were alive, their husbands were unfaithful to them." That caused him to stop. "And these women, basically suffering from temporary insanity, murdered their children." He turned around. "Then once they realized what they had done, they took their own lives. So now their spirits are cursed, walking back roads, waterways. And if they find an unfaithful man, they kill him. And that man is never seen again." "You think...you think that has something to do with...Constance? You smartass!" "You tell me." Jay says, staring him in the eye. "I mean, maybe...maybe I made some mistakes. But no matter what I did, Constance, she never would have killed her own children. Now, you get the hell out of here! And you don't come back!" Joseph was shaking, though from grief or anger Jay couldn't tell. After a moment, Jay sighs and turns to leave.

At the sheriffs station, Dean is still getting interrogated about the note in the journal. "I don't know how many times I gotta tell you. It's my high school locker combo." "We gonna do this all night long?" The sheriff asks, struggling to remain calm, when a deputy leans in. "We just got a 911, shots fired over at Whiteford Road." The sheriff turns back to Dean. "You have to go to the bathroom?" Confused Dean replies. "No." "Good." He then handcuffs Dean to the table and leaves. Seeing a paperclip poking out, he grabs it and starts picking his cuffs. Moments later, he's free and after the sheriff and deputy leave he jumps out the window and goes down the fire escape. 

Jay and Sam are driving in the Impala when Sam gets a call. "Hello?" "Sammy, it's Dean, my phone was confiscated and I didn't have time to get it back. Also, fake 911 call. Gotta say, pretty illegal." "You're welcome." Jay pipes in. "Listen we gotta talk." Jay grabs the phone from Sam. "Tell me about it. So the husband was unfaithful. We are dealing with a woman in white. And she's buried behind her old house, so that should have been Dad's next stop." "Jaybird, would you shut up for a second?" "I just can't figure out why Dad hasn't destroyed the corpse yet, tha-" "He left Jericho." That gives her pause. "I've got his journal." "Wait, he never goes a damn place without the thing." "Yeah, well, he did this time." Jay pauses. "He left you a note in it." "Yeah, the same old ex-Marine crap, when he wants to let us know where he's going." "Coordinates. Where to?" "I'm not sure yet." Sam takes the phone back. "I don't understand. I mean, what could be so important that Dad would just skip out in the middle of a job? Dean, what the hell is going on?" "SAM!" Jay shouts, causing him to slam on the breaks and drop his phone. Constance is standing in front of them. "Sam? Sam!" Inside the car the two breath hard and Constance flickers into the backseat. "Take me home."

"No." Sam says. Constance glares and the doors lock themselves. The two struggle to reopen them when the gas pedal presses down and the car begins to drive itself. Sam tries to steer, but Constance is doing that too. They continues to try to get the door open and in the backseat, she flickers.

The car pulls up outside the house and shuts off, and Jay finally gathers her nerves. "Listen here you ghosty bitch. A. my brother isn't cheating on his girlfriend, I'm his sister, B. boo hoo, you husband cheated on you. What you don't do is fucking murder your children and start tempting men. They barely have brain cells to begin with. "Hey!" Sam say, looking affronted, but Jay ignores him. Constance ignores here, continuing with her ghostly monologue. "I can never go home." Jay throws her hands in the air. "Sam, you deal with White, I'll find her corpse." She lifts up a floor compartment and grabs salt and oil, before smashing a window and jumping out. 

Inside Sam is stuck with Constance. "Don't do this." Constance flickers, her voice sad. "I can never go home." "You're scared to go home." Sam looks back, but she isn't there. He turns and sees her in the seat his sister just vacated. "Hold me. I'm so cold." "You can't kill me. I'm not unfaithful. I've never been! That girl was actually my sister." "You will be. Just hold me." 

She kisses Sam as he continues to struggle, reaching for the keys. She pulls back and disappears, a flash of something horrible behind her face as she vanishes. SAM looks around for a moment, then yells in pain and yanks his hoodie open. There are five new holes burned through the fabric, matching to Constance's fingers: she flickers in front of him, her hand reaching into his chest. A gunshot goes off, shattering the window and startling her. Dean approaches, still firing at her. She glares at him and vanishes, then reappears, and he keeps firing until she disappears again. Sam manages to sit up and get out. "Dean, Jay's gone after her body." 

They run into the house and find Jay talking to Constance. "Constance listen to me. It's not your fault. Calm down, your children don't blame you, they want to see you again. When your husband cheated on you you went insane for a moment, it wasn't something you could control!" Behind her, water begins pouring down the stairs and two children flicker in front of her. "You've come home to us, Mommy." They hug her tightly and the three ghosts flicker and vanish. Sam reaches the same conclusion Jay did. "So this is where she drowned her kids. This is why she could never go home, she was too scared to face them." "You found her weak spot, nice job Jaybird." He then slaps her on the back and Sam in the chest. The too of them laugh, though Sam laughs through the pain. "Yeah, I wish I could say the same for you. What were you thinking shooting Casper in the face, you freak?" "Hey. Saved your ass." "Yeah well I saved us all, so I win." Dean turns to Sam. "I'll tell you another thing. If you screwed up my car, I'll kill you." Sam and Jay laugh again and they all pile in.

On the highway, Dean is driving while Sam has the journal open to "DEAN 35-111" and a map open on his lap and is finding coordinates with a ruler, a flashlight tucked between chin and shoulder and Jay napped in the back. "Okay, here's where Dad went. It's called Blackwater Ridge, Colorado." Dean nods. "Sounds charming. How far?" "About six hundred miles." "Hey, if we shag ass we could make it by morning." Sam looks at him, hesitating. "Dean, I, um..." Dean glances at the road then back. "You're not going. And you don't want Jay to be going either." "The interview's in like, ten hours. I gotta be there. And, Jay could make it, no problem, and I don't think she's safe around dad." Dean nods, disappointed, and returns his attention to the road. "Yeah. Yeah, whatever, I'll take you home, but in the end, it's up to her." Sam turns off the flashlight.

They pull up in front of the apartment, Dean still frowning. Sam gets out and leans over to open the back door and wake up Jay. "Jay, come on, wake up." "Hm, yeah." "Jay, we're back at the apartment. " That wakes her up. "So this is good bye?" Sam smiles. "Not necessarily. You can stay here if you want, you can come to the interview, they'd be astounded." Jay looks over at dean who nods. Jay leans forward and hugs him. "Call once a week, please. And when you find dad." Dean nods, and Sam goes into the apartment to let Jess know while Jay gets her stuff from the trunk.

Sam lets himself in. Everything is dark and quiet. "Jess? I'm home, and Jay's coming too." He closes the door and notices a plate of chocolate chip cookies on the table, with a note that reads "Missed you! Love you!", next to a National Geographic. He picks one up and eats it as he sneaks into the bedroom, smiling when he notices a guest room set up. The shower is audibly running as he sits on the bed, shuts his eyes, and flops onto his back. 

Blood drips onto Sam's forehead, one drop, then another; he flinches and opens his eyes. He gasps in horror: Jess is pinned to the ceiling, staring down at him and bleeding from the belly. "No!" She bursts into flames, which spread across the ceiling. Jay kicks the door open, her stuff dropped outside. "Sam!" Sam raises an arm to shield his face. "Jess!" "Sam, come on, she's gone, we have to get out!" She grabs him and starts dragging him out the door. "Jess! Jess! No!" The make it out just as fire ingulfs the apartment.

Outside firetrucks are putting out the fire as spectators gawk. Sam is loading a shot gun while Jay and Dean looks a him worried. He tosses it into the trunk, then shuts it, his face a blank mask. Dean reaches over and touches his shoulder. "Hey. How you doing?" Jay gives him a 'he just lost the love of his life and you're asking if he's okay?' incredulous look and Sam a worried one, as if he might blame her like their father did. "I'm fine." He turns to Jay and gives her a hug. "I don't blame you, it's not your fault." He whispered in her ear before turning. "Come on, we got work to do."

[newedensgarden]

To be an Idiot

To be an Idiot - P1 MAJOR MAJOR MAJOR TW FOR SEVERAL THEMES.

https://youtu.be/8orOcI6N_tE It had been a week or two since the brain injury. Wesley still wasn't quite ready to talk about what had happened. His family and friends were trying to support that. It was growing difficult. He hadn't been able to get back to work yet. He hadn't been able to get back into the director's chair just yet. Speaking of chairs, he was having to use one. Wheeling himself everywhere for a bit, refusing to accept assistance from anyone unless it was Mamma Moriah. He felt...well. As his own hounddog of a Daddy used to tell him "The Old and the Weak are doomed. You have no idea what it is to suffer like I have, shaa." What a real piece of work he was. Moriah met him once. He even really liked her. Never again.  The man wheeled down the marble and stone hallway of the Anne Rice house that was in the heart of New Orleans. Been out of the hospital for a week or two, after the memory trigger day. It felt like a different house somehow. Perhaps it was the different perspectives or he just wanted to redecorate or what, Wesley wasn't entirely sure. The old fart wheeled down the middle hallway on the lower floor, sighing and seeing a faux fur coat on the railway of the vintage staircase. West was not a man of many complaints. But he had been raised by several women to be a southern gentlemen. Hell, before he transitioned they treated him like a southern belle. So he got the best and worst traits from both sides of the south. He grabbed the jacket and folded it up, standing up out of the wheelchair which was definitely possible, but not doctor recommended. Moriah unfortunately caught her husband walking instead of rolling. She came out of the kitchen, sweating from the fact she was trying to learn to cook. She popped his arm in a playful manner. "You better sit your ass down, old man. Before I sit on you."  West grunted and retorted, not realizing how mean his next statement would come across. But they griped like an old married couple despite only tying the knot a while ago.  "You sure? You might crush me. You are carrying three babies round in'ere." He teased, emphasizing his accent to be silly while he gave her a silly smack on the ass. A ripe peach sitting at the bottom of a sweet picked pear. She gasped and bowed up as if she were going to fight. Anyone who had spent anytime in their household had quickly figured out. They talked a lot of shit but nobody ended up getting hurt.  West spent years being around men. Trying to be the most masculine. Literally in the marines. Fighting, bootcamp, sports, working out, wrestling. When he found out he had not one but two boys who would eventually grow to enjoy similar masculine things, he was also burdened with an overabudance of joy in the form of not just twins and a pair of triplets. All girls. So his femininity could shine with them.  Moriah however... "Come on. Either way, it looks bad. If I win, I beat up a cripple and you fought a preggo woman." She teased, sticking out the tongue that was stained blue from candy the kids brought her earlier. He leaned onto the back of his wheelchair, huffing and puffing like an angry little rhino.  She jumped into his lap. "Give up yer guns, fellas. Slide 'em over." Westley laughed and nodded. Dimples creasing his stubble cheeks. He was starting to get a pepper beard again. "Very good impression of me. Your fake southern accent is getting much better, moonshine." "it was from Cowboy's and Angels. DId you catch that?" Moriah asked, feigning offense that he didn't get his own damn movie reference. They put up both their fisticuffs at each other. Their eighteen year old padded down the staircase that creaked with every third step. The tan boy moved past his parents and got something to drink, going back up stairs and calling out "Their being weird again!"  

  To be an Idiot - P2 MAJOR MAJOR MAJOR TW FOR SEVERAL THEMES.

based on a darker twisted version of this scene, which me and Mo just adore: https://youtu.be/Hbw9om0u2C4 this current drabble references this other drabble I did and also continues the story of 'GIgi' a bit: https://www.roleplayer.me/view_bulletin.php?bulletin_id=2471951 The room was white. Sterile white. Off white. This would typically piss West off as soon as he opened big brown eyes. But instead, he sat up and saw the nurse. But then spotted Moriah coming in, a baby boy on her hip. She was staring at him with a deadpan. The baby looked happy to see someone he recognized. West hopped up and out of the hospital bed, walking closer to the woman with a black ponytail and reddened face with bloodshot blues. West reverted to his twenty year old self. "I feel like a tornado in a trailer park." He spoke for the first time. Southern accent dripped thick off each syllable. He took some closer steps towards Moriah who stepped back again in caution. "Wesley Alexander..." This caused him to stop, tucking strong caloused hands into his pockets. But they weren't pockets. He was wearing a hospital gown that he hadn't noticed. He then winced and raised fingers to the side of his temple which was bandaged. "Hello gorgeous. What's your name?" "Mister Mason." The nurse spoke up. He kept rolling. "How would you like to ride home on a real cowboy." The woman with black hair and sweatpants passed off the little boy in her arms to the eighteen year old with curls. "I got a six pack of cold ones, on ice. And my damn roommates out all night..." They stepped into the hallway and he stopped, blinking rapidly for a moment and gripping his head again. Moriah placed her manicured hand against his chest through the thin paper hospital gown. "So, you can scream my name as loud as you want all night, sugar..." After West went on his speil he felt a bit dizzy and leaned against the hospital hallway wall. No one was in the hallway but Moriah and him now. Doctors too busy, nurses wandering. Moriah cupped the side of his face, her eyes rimming with tears. "I hate to do this to you, Daddy. But the therapist recommended it..."

To be an Idiot - P3 MAJOR MAJOR MAJOR TW FOR SEVERAL THEMES.

Moriah cupped the side of his face, her eyes rimming with tears. "I hate to do this to you, Daddy. But the therapist recommended it..." She reached into the pocket of her clothes that, as he looked closer, realized it might of belonged to his closet. She lifted a necklace up out of the collar. Not a necklace. A dogtag. She placed it into the palm of West's hand before also pulling out a polaroid. Him in the very same hospital. With three babies in the woman's arms, two boys on either side of what appeared to be an exhausted West, and two girls who looked exactly alike on the other side. One of them held up what looked to be a rock and roll symbol with her hand. West blinked a bit, not wanting to think about the bad things. So he forced a smile, dimples and all. "Well, who is this pretty bunch I wonder?" The woman with black hair then covered her face and tried to control her emotion, failing. Wesley saw his two brothers come down the hall. The younger one hugged him quickly. The other one stood beside Moriah and tried to comfort her in his own awkward way. Just a pat to the shoulder. "Is it working? Are you doing what Doctor Tony said?" Moriah rolled her bloodshot eyes, seemingly more blue and bright than before. She glared up at the person who was clearly her brother-in-law. "her name is Doctor Liara T'Soni. Be respectful." But West was having trouble remembering anything before....well. Him. "hey, have you guys seen Ethan anywhere? I have been meaning to ask him--" West stopped, trailing off. Furrowing brows. Something in the back of his brain was clicking. Like someone was trying to spark the light on a stove and it just wasn't going, but you could definitely smell the gas. Moriah reached out and reopened his palm to show the dogtag she gave him. It read

MASON-STILLS

WESLEY A. POS

666999000

USMC, L

CHRISTIAN. ISH.

Wesley stared at it, trying to put the pieces together. This was his dogtags from the marines. It had his name, social, blood type, even gas mask size. He stared, almost zoned out in the hallway still leaning against the hallway wall with the support now of his younger brother. They called him Billy the Kid. "Ethan." he repeated.

  To be an Idiot - P4 MAJOR MAJOR MAJOR TW FOR SEVERAL THEMES.

Wesley stared at it, trying to put the pieces together. This was his dogtags from the marines. It had his name, social, blood type, even gas mask size. He stared, almost zoned out in the hallway still leaning against the hallway wall with the support now of his younger brother. They called him Billy the Kid. "Ethan." he repeated. "Ethan is dead." Jesse, the eldest said. Moriah hit him in the abdomen with one of her rosegold rings. Her last anniversary present was about to be used to beat her brother-in-law. Wesley staggered back, gripping his head. It hurt to remember. It sort of hit him in one fell swoop. Moriah's sad eyes looked up at him. She looked into his eyes. She saw them change. Dark chocolate of a young twenty year old kid who is trying to prove his masculinity. It faded, melted into the cold coffee tones with slight flecks of gold. The gold pieces she put into his eyes, simply by knowing each other. She saw her husband come back and she let out the quietest little laugh. "Heh!" Moriah bit her bottom lip, now bruised and abused from nerves. Both Mason brothers looked over at Moriah, wondering what the laugh was. "How are you doing, dummy?." West let out a sigh and reached his arm out, pulling her into a strong but firm embrace. He kissed the top of her black ponytail, skimming bandaged fingertips through her ponytail. "Better, now that I see your goofy face." Wesley spoke right back. His eyes and seemingly his voice aged almost instantly. The trials of having seveire PTSD. The brothers helped him up to a normal standing position and helped him basically wobble his way back into his hospital room. Apparently more people had filed in since he woke up. Riley and Avery were in the corner, looking over their phone. The freshly four-year-old Armie was in the bed where his father just was. Probably because it was warm and smelled like his Dad. Then of course the rotten teenager was pacing nervously, asking the nurse a billion questions about triplets and how they function.