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fayoftheforest · 1 year

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hey hey!! random question but what do you think kyle's kids are like? or even cartman's kids. i've just been sitting in my little corner with my own little characterizations so i figured might as well break out of my shell a little and ask other ppl what their interpretations are, and ur rlly fun!! :D

Thank you so much for the ask!! I love all your art of Kyle and Cartmans' children very much, it's fantastic :D I thought long and hard, and have come up with these wildly unfounded headcanons for Kyle’s children, partially influenced by kidfics I have read by authors such as Hollycomb and Sekrit (credit to the latter for being the first to name Kyle’s kid Benji!)

Benjamin Bartholemew Broflovski: I’ve always headcanoned Kyle’s middle name as Benjamin. Likewise, I hc Bartholomew is a family name on Gerald’s side, so Kyle wanted to honour that too. Plus, he's a big fan of alliteration :D

Benji is an overachieving, do-no-wrong golden child. He plays a lot of soccer in his youth (watched over by Soccer Mom Kyle) but switches to basketball in high school after a generous growth spurt. He’s also academically gifted, getting great grades in all of his classes. His favourite subject is history, specifically early civilisation. Would you like to know how the ancient Egyptians mummified the dead? Or the process of constructing an ancient Roman road? Well, he’s going to tell you anyway, and the lecture will last no less than two hours, and no, you don’t get a break. The only time that Benji does not exude confidence is when it comes to dating when he's older, wherein he’s a flustered and stuttering mess. He’s got the Bitchless Broflovski curse, I’m afraid 😔

Despite his radiant childhood, he goes through a rebellious phase in his early teen years. He starts to worry that people see him as boring or stuck-up, and so acts out. I doubt he’d go full goth, but maybe he’d get busted for drinking on school property or something, camped out behind the bleachers with some of the Bad Kids. Kyle gets SO MAD that the full name is cracked out: "Benjamin Bartholemew Broflovski!" but Benji figures if it’s pissing his dad off, then he must be doing something right. This behaviour spirals out of control until he has a bit of a scare (someone gets hurt, but not seriously), and after Kyle comes to his rescue, the two have a good ol’ heart to heart and all is well once more :)

During the brief moment we see him in Post Covid, Benji is shown wearing a kippah, which could indicate that he’s an orthodox Jew. However, Kyle’s lifestyle does not seem to adhere to orthodoxy on the show, and I imagine he’d raise Benji as a reform/liberal Jew, just like I think Kyle is. The kippah could be because they’re at a Denny’s Applebees Max, and some Jews choose to cover their heads when eating, but I believe that, like Gerald, he simply wears his all of the time. As the post-covid conclusion is a utopian vision, Benji has been raised without the same antisemitic bullying that his father experienced, and so has no shame or self-loathing about being Jewish. He’s proud and he’s passionate about his faith!

Ada-May Sheila Broflovski: Kyle strikes me as the kind of guy to name his daughter after a famous feminist figure. Ada is after Ada Lovelace, who’s widely considered to be the first computer programmer! The ‘May’ is a family name, double barreled because he likes the ring to it. Sheila is of course after his mother, who he may have his gripes with, but still loves very dearly.

Ada is a quiet child. Raised in her older brother’s shadow, she’s not as naturally gifted at sports, and despite her namesake struggles quite a lot with math. Kyle loves both his children equally of course, but sometimes he doesn’t know what to make of her, because she’s not very expressive and quite emotionally closed off at times. She really enjoys reading, particularly nonfiction, so Kyle finds ways to connect with her by talking to her about the books she enjoys, and reading her favourites with her.

Ada doesn’t have too many friends whilst growing up, which Kyle stresses over to no end, but she doesn’t mind too much, happy in her own little world. In high school she makes friends with Moisha, Cartman’s son, and they start the school paper together. This kickstarts her passion for photography, as she follows Moisha around with a camera whist he asks people invasive and leading questions. The pair get into a lot of trouble together, and many hijinks ensue. Kyle blames it on Moisha's upbringing by his inept father and secretly misses the days when Ada didn’t have so many friends.

Tzedakah (charity work) is one of the most important commandments that Jews are obligated to observe, and I can see Ada really connecting with this mitzvah. She loves helping people in need, and works on many, many charity drives and events throughout her youth. She inherits a strong sense of justice from her father, and I love the idea of them bonding over this! They volunteer every Wednesday night at a soup kitchen together, and Benji sometimes comes too, making it a family affair :D

So, those are my main headcanons for Benji and Ada at the moment! I’d love to hear anyone else’s thoughts if they’d like to share theirs as well. Thanks for giving me the opportunity to ramble!!

#south park #kyle broflovski #kyle's kids #moisha cartman #headcanons

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ecoamerica · 2 months

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geralds-rambling-again · 3 months

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Hey there!! :]

SO! First of all, this is a reblogging sideblog for @geralds-little-art-corner , which is my main xd jsjsj if you like or reblog or follow me on there its most certain that i will go through your blog and check out your stuff! so in short, just wanted to let you know that the 2 are directly intertwined :D

#geralds rambles

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automaticgardenflower · 1 year

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Consequences by Angela Huth

Professor Gerald Bravington met Leonora Thorne on the 8.15 from Pewsey to Paddington. He noted with pleasure that by some chance, for a Tuesday, the train was not crowded. The professor chose the compartment she alone occupied. He sat by the window, opposite her, back to the engine: his favourite seat, when he could get it. He observed that Miss Thorne, as he later discovered was her name, wore a red coat and was filling in the Times crossword with considerable speed.

It was a fine morning, but condensation on the window obscured the view. The professor wiped his hand across it, making a wide ribbon through which he peered at the familiar landscape. After a while Miss Thorne, who had been clicking her pencil against her teeth, said:

‘ “Our sincerest something with some pain is fraught”. Do you know what?’

The professor drew his eyes from the fields to her face. She had good teeth, white and even.

‘Laughter,’ he said.

‘Thank you. That’s it. I can never do the quotes.’

‘They’re all I can ever manage,’ the professor answered, who was not a crossword puzzle man.

There were papers in his case that he should attend to: he had planned to read once more through his notes on Carlyle, in the hopes that he would not have to refer to them on the platform.

‘If it wasn’t so heavy I’d bring the Oxford Book of Quotations with me,’ said Miss Thorne. ‘If it wasn’t for the quotes I’d get it done most days by Hungerford. My father, before he retired, always managed to do it between Newbury and Reading.’

She folded the paper and put it on the seat beside her. Her eyes were restless, grey. They turned down at the corners, matching the slant of her mouth. The professor put a hand on his briefcase, making to open it.

‘Haven’t I seen you somewhere recently?’ she asked, frowning. ‘On television or something?’

‘Could have done,’ said the professor. ‘I show my face from time to time.’ He disliked being recognised, and thought attempts at conversation too bold, so early in the morning. Women’s Liberation had killed the art of the subtle approach.

‘Thought so. Do you live down here?’

The professor considered not answering her question. It was no business of hers where he lived, and probably of no interest. Yes, he did live down here, in a seedy rented cottage on the banks of the Kennet and Avon canal. Damp all year round: no heating, unreliable light. Three thousand books and a broken sofa. A willow warbler outside the kitchen window, milk in bottles left to clot, used tea bags cluttering up the sink. It had all got on top of him, somehow, since Mrs Jenkins had given up her weekly bicycle ride across the fields to help him out. Yes, he lived there, if you could call it living: reading, writing, eating out of tins, swallowing pills to induce a few hours of fretful sleep.

‘I do,’ he said eventually, eyes back out of the window. He heard her cross her legs, the rasp of her tights.

‘Sorry to have interrupted your concentration, but I knew you’d know your Shelley.’

Was that sarcasm in her voice? Or merely the impatience of a woman used to men reacting to her swiftly? In any case, her guess might easily have been wrong. She was taking a silly line.

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I’m little acquainted with Shelley, as a matter of fact. Not very fond of him. I learnt The Skylark, at school. It was drummed into us along with Ode to the West Wind.’

But Miss Thorne’s head was bent over a book now. Huffy. She shrugged, but said no more. The professor had offended her, he supposed. In the old days, when he was more concerned about doing right by women, he was always offending them. He possessed no talents to charm them; that had always been his problem. He had felt uncommonly – quite disturbingly – inclined towards one or two of them in the past (the names Patricia and Teresa came briefly to mind), but the partial independence he had always insisted upon had not satisfied them. They required more than he had been prepared to give – his entire being, his every private reflection, a whole mass of promises concerning love and fidelity in the future. So far he had never felt all that was worth bargaining for, and so, some twenty years ago, the professor had abandoned the search for an ideal woman with whom to share his life. He decided that no such thing existed. Those who thought they had found perfection fooled themselves, as the years would show.

Out of the running, the professor was a happier man. Disillusion no longer disturbed him. The occasional woman who attempted to glut her own loneliness, desirousness, whatever, upon him, he could treat with impressive indifference: Madam, he would say, don’t waste your time. I have no sympathy, no compassion. Go elsewhere. And at the ice in his voice they would give up, knowing he meant what he said. Now, the only women he depended upon were those he paid to ease the domestic side of his life. He missed Mrs Jenkins because without her the rubble of the cottage had become almost unbearable. When he could summon the energy he would have to try to lure some other woman from the village, by means of extravagant wages, to replace her. The professor sighed at the thought.

The train pulled into Paddington. He saw that the uncovered ends of the platforms were wet, and wondered at what moment of the journey the skies had changed without his noticing. Foreboding gripped him. He hated London rain.

‘Taxi,’ he said out loud, standing up.

‘Taxi,’ said Miss Thorne. ‘I never take the tube, I’m afraid. I can’t bear it.’ She spoke vehemently, as if the tube was someone who had offended her in the past.

They walked together up the platform, stood side by side in the queue. A silent wait for ten minutes. It was always like this on rainy days. For practical reasons the professor asked Miss Thorne where she was going: to share a cab would at least halve the wait for one of them. Ludgate Circus was her destination.

‘Well, how extraordinary,’ remarked the professor, ‘for I myself am bound for the City. Therefore it would seem sensible to share...’ Miss Thorne nodded without interest.

In truth, the professor was going to Baker Street, the opposite direction. But there was plenty of time. If he had made his way directly to the lecture hall he would have had to spend a dull hour in the canteen. Half an hour in a traffic jam with this strange red lady seemed preferable. Nonetheless the professor felt himself blush at his own lie. A man much concerned with the truth, to hear himself lie with such easy spontaneity was disturbing. He turned away to concentrate hard on an advertisement for hair oil that blared across the murky walls of the station. Goethe was right: ‘Man thinks he directs his life, leads himself: but his innermost being is irresistibly drawn in the direction of his destiny.’ Destiny had decreed that he and Miss Thorne should share a taxi. Therefore the lie was forgivable – indeed, imperative.

At last it was their turn. They sat side by side on the beige leather seat, encompassed in the stuffy air that smelt of old cigars. The professor’s briefcase lay between them. Miss Thorne’s gloved fingers played scales on her navy leather bag. She wore shoes of matching blue decorated with gold chains. Good ankles.

‘Wish I could remember where it was I saw you,’ she said, turning to look at him. ‘Some programme about education, could it have been?’ Her eyes held such enquiry that the professor felt afraid.

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I’m asked from time to time for my opinion upon diverse subjects, and find myself accepting with little relish.’ What he had meant to say was that he did a bit of television in order to pay the bills. But the red lady’s musky scent, which the professor had not noticed in the train, had stifled the cigar fumes and rampaged through his senses in a curious fashion. He noticed that the buildings of London, this morning, seemed to be made of coarse grain, shifting as if in a wind. Through the rain-pearled windows familiar streets were quite distorted so that it was difficult to be sure, on this well-known route, precisely where they were. And it was necessary to hear more of the lady’s voice.

‘You do have a funny pompous way of talking, if you don’t mind my saying so,’ she said. ‘Wonderfully old-fashioned.’ She smiled kindly. Extremely kindly, white teeth a-dance among scarlet lips.

‘Really? I wasn’t aware...’

‘I shall look out for you,’ she said, ‘on television.’

As far as the professor could tell, they were passing the Savoy. It was then he asked her name, and was told Leonora Thorne.

‘Beautiful name, Leonora,’ he said, wondering if that, too, sounded pompous.

‘Probably helped me more than anything to become an executive secretary,’ she said.

‘Is that what you are?’

‘That’s it.’

‘Very impressive.’

‘Quite dull. But well paid. In a year’s time I shall stop commuting and stay at home.’

‘What will you do at home?’

‘Help my father with his orchards. We sell apples and plums.’

‘Ah.’ The professor could not imagine her, red-coated, up a tree, basket over her arm. ‘Crossword in the lunch hour, then?’

‘I suppose so, or I’ll become a complete cabbage, won’t I?’

A cabbage among the apples. The professor smiled as the taxi pulled up at the door of a stern building. Miss Thorne opened her bag, fumbled for her purse. The professor touched her gloved hand: he would not hear of it, he said. It was on his way. Miss Thorne looked at him in belief. She got out of the taxi, tossed her hair in the rain. The professor leant out, shook her hand. She thanked him. He said perhaps they would run into each other again one day on the train. Perhaps, she said, and ran to the door. Rain splashed her shining blue shoes. Her red back disappeared quickly, impervious. As the taxi moved away the professor noticed the name on a small brass plate: Benson & Benson Ltd., Engineers. To whom in Benson & Benson was it the happy destiny to have acquired Miss Leonora Thorne, dreaming of her orchards, as executive secretary? Silly thought: but the professor would have given much to swap places with that person this morning.

As the taxi made its slow way towards Baker Street Professor Bravington found himself thinking about the exceptional white - ness of her teeth. Over a cup of tea in the canteen, guest of several students, he found the chains of her shoes glinting in his mind. On the platform itself he managed to banish Leonora while he concentrated upon Carlyle, and was rewarded by keen applause. But on the train returning to Pewsey – empty compartment very bare without her – she returned to him: the lilt of her voice, the funny way she boasted about her ability to do the crossword. The professor, repeating his earlier gesture, wiped a clear space in the steamed-up window, and watched the rain slant across fleeting trees. He thought about her father’s orchards: apples and plums, she had said.

Professor Bravington was set upon a course from which he knew there could be no diversions. Exactly when the climax of that course would come he did not know, or care to know. It was a subject on which he would not question himself. He was content merely to let himself drift from day to day, without anticipation, until the right moment became recognisable.

When he arrived back that raining day from London, a feeling of unusual melancholy hung over him. His bicycle dripped in the station car park, its seat quite sodden. The rain battered into his eyes as he rode, and walking across the field to his cottage the mud seeped into his shoes. He was used to such things. They did not bother him. His mind was normally on bookish matters, too involved to be disturbed by the heaviest rain. But today, detachment from physical discomfort was suddenly not possible. There was no ignoring the wet, the chill, the bleakness of the evening ahead.

And the cottage itself, he noticed, was particularly desolate. The thatch was black with water. A thick curtain of raindrops fell from the eaves. Inside, the sickly smell of damp. Water dripped from a yellow patch in the kitchen ceiling and overflowed from a saucer the professor had laid on the floor in the morning. The sink was full of dirty plates, gaudy smears of dried egg yolk and baked beans – horrible colours in the gloom. The professor, still in his gloves, lit the kettle. Its instant hissing made a companionable noise, but the tin of tea bags was empty. With some distaste he plucked a damp tea bag from the pile under the plates in the sink, and put it in a mug. Through the window he could see that the solitary white duck, which of late had frequented this stretch of the canal, was huddled in the reeds on the bank. Head under its wing, it lay quite motionless.

The professor put logs on to the ash in the grate and lit a fire. The small flames had no power to slay the feeling of damp – they barely warmed his feet. He kept his coat on and lay back in the broken armchair, mug of revoltingly weak tea to warm his hands. Later, he ate some dry cream crackers and drank several glasses of whisky.

He watched himself steering his way down the narrow course he had set, eyes strictly ahead, not glancing in any direction for indications of help. There is no likelihood of rescue if signs of desiring rescue are not given, and the professor was not one for troubling others with his trivial depressions. The apparent futility of his life, he believed, was something that concerned him alone. He had always believed in the protection of one’s friends from oneself. And besides, these days, due to his own apathy, his friends were scarce. They saw him from time to time on television and wrote letters of congratulation on his dazzling articulation and good sense. ‘Saw you in excellent form as ever,’ one of them had written only last week, ‘country life must suit you.’ The professor was grateful, but only required that these few remaining friends should keep their distance. He never invited them to the cottage, and refused invitations so constantly to their London dinner parties that they had long ago given up asking him.

Professor Bravington played with a small pile of biscuit crumbs on his thigh, dividing and sub-dividing them into patterns. It seemed to him that what had happened today had caused the faintest – indeed an almost imperceptible – hesitation in his journey. Leonora Thorne, her wonderful conventionality shining brightly in train and taxi, had stood like a stranger on the bank and waved a wave of recognition. The gesture was a a little unnerving. The professor desired no recognition on his solitary way. And yet... the smugness of her tailored coat, her dreary bag, her matching shoes – they symbolised a gentle pleasure he had ceased to imagine many years ago would exist for him. Perhaps to pause with her for a while, a mild autumn picking fruit in her father’s orchards, would cause no harm. Not an affair, of course. At the thought of the absurd process of shedding clothes only to cling to another body in the dear privacy of his single bed, the professor blew all the crumbs from his thigh on to the floor. Not an affair in that sense: just a rewarding union of minds. (Maybe she would be interested in Carlyle). The temporary cheer of companionship – a drink in the pub, scrambled eggs in here by the fire. (He could clean the place up, somehow). Walks down the towpath. She might like the smell of wild chives in spring, if their association lasted that long.

The professor would not let her come too close, of course. All she would see of him would be the public man, the humorous intellectual who smiled on television. He would not warn her of his destiny: that would be unfair. All he would ask was her response: smiles and laughter for a while, before he pursued his way.

For a drunken fantasy, as the professor realised the whole thing was as he stumbled to bed much later that night, the idea had taken a curious hold. It had not faded next morning, as soberly he regarded more rain. And a week later it was still vivid, providing him with a new energy. He preoccupied himself with trying to clean the place, though was soon diverted from this hopeless task by renewing acquaintance with old books. Each day he walked far along the towpath, watching swallows swoop to dip their breasts in their own shadows on the water’s surface. He would walk until he was cold and wet and tired, and then have a lukewarm bath in his damp and peeling bathroom, which scarcely warmed him but afforded an illogical pleasure.

One afternoon, some three weeks after he had met Leonora Thorne, the professor, inspired by a silvery rainless day, decided to be practical. He would buy provisions at the post office, then make his way to the call box.

For once, he enjoyed the shopping: bought the entire stock of Ambrosia creamed rice, four dozen boxes of matches, hrelighters, tinned pilchards, raspberry jam, sliced bread, sausages, margarine, Pears soap, and a packet of toffee, which he liked to suck on his walks along the towpath. He felt there were other things he should have remembered, but for the time being they escaped his memory. He tied the box of provisions on to the rack behind his bicycle seat, and pushed the heavy machine the few yards to the call box.

Inside, he gasped for air: vile smells of wet cement floor and stale cigarette smoke. He leant against one glass-paned wall, heart beating jumpily like it used to in the early days of appearances on television. Directory Enquiries gave him the number of Benson & Benson. He made a small pile of ten pence pieces, in case the call should be a long one.

‘Benson & Benson, good afternoon.’

The chink of his coin.

‘Miss Leonora Thorne, please.’

‘Miss Thorne?’

Terrible silence, bringing back to the professor his first teenage date acquired through a telephone call to some nubile girl in Windsor. He remembered the trapped isolation of a call box, only possible to escape from by the cowardly act of putting down the receiver. He remembered the alarm of silence. The fear brought about by his own determination to hang on.

‘Mr Wheeler’s office. Can I help you?’

‘Leonora?’ Surely it wasn’t her voice.

‘I’m sorry, Miss Thorne is in South Africa for a month on business. Can I take a message?’

‘No. No, thank you. No message.’

The professor put down the telephone. Silly not to have rung before. But a month was not so very long, he thought. Why, it was almost a month since he had seen her. Thirty days. Give him another chance to clear up the cottage.

But stacking the tins of rice and pilchards into the kitchen cupboard – mice droppings on every shelf – it seemed longer. Tea! That was it. He had meant to get more tea. The professor swore out loud. Tea-less, thirty days was hopelessly long.

Then he began to laugh at himself, at the absurdity of the whole plan, at the weeks he’d waited brooding upon it when it was in fact irrelevant to his central strategy. He cursed the disease of hope, for the restlessness it caused, the silly flutterings of the heart. Damn Miss Leonora Thorne and her thoughtless waving: she had lost her chance. He would not recognise the signals. Like all the others, having offered some fragment of hope, she had failed. He was no longer interested, he no longer cared. There was tinned rice enough till spring. Tomorrow he would clean the shelves – for himself, not for the benefit of Miss Thorne. Tonight he would read Carlyle, and eat pilchards straight from the tin.

Much later it rained again. The professor tried to block his ears against its battering of the window, but the sound penetrated the sparse feathers of his pillow. Miss Leonora Thorne, as he sailed once more down his course, still waved from the bank, smugly, in her tailored scarlet, with the mocking smile of one whose existence is to remind. Damn her: she would fade. Trespassers upon solitude were easily cast out. They had no power to distress, and what most concerned the professor at present was the itching of his eyes.

For several days he had been afflicted by irritation of the eyelids. Each time he blinked they seemed to scrape his eyeballs with filaments of glass. As a result, the eyeballs were raw and tearful. He bathed them night and morning, but felt no improvement. Now, in the dark, heart pounding from half a bottle of whisky, and head bleary from sleeping pills, they fiercely hurt. The lids scratched the balls in a way that made sleep impossible. Reluctantly, the professor got up and went down to the kitchen.

There, the fire was dead and water dripped from the ceiling again. Black rain slashed against the windows and the wind keened with horrible self-pity. In his half-drunk state the professor felt a sense of shock: he was used to such depressing things, but not in the middle of the night. He poured himself the rest of the bottle of whisky and, not counting them, swallowed a clump of sleeping pills. Then he went to the sink and chose two damp tea bags from the pile on the draining board. He had heard they contained antiseptic and could soothe sore eyes.

He carried them upstairs and returned to bed. After turning out the light he lay down and arranged the tea bags on his closed eyelids. Almost immediately, he thought, he could feel some improvement. In celebration he drank the rest of the whisky – an awkward feat in his recumbent position: some of it ran down his chin and wet the neck of his pyjamas. Perhaps this is the right time, he thought: then, confused by the pills and alcohol, he remembered it was not so. Another thirty days. If Leonora Thorne had not faded in another thirty days... He might give her one last chance.

His eyes ceased to hurt and the wind faded. The sound of the rain dulled against the windows, no longer to be avoided, quite soothing in the dark.

They found him ten days later, decomposing in his narrow bed, tea bags dry but still in place upon his eyes. No one in the village could imagine his motive for suicide: he was a quiet man, the professor, they said – kept himself to himself, but always so charming to talk to. He seemed happy enough, full of smiles in the pub on the rare occasions they saw him – just as he was on television. Pity.

Leonora Thorne’s trip to South Africa was cut short by three weeks due to an economic crisis in the firm in London. On the train, her first day back to work, irritated by the change in plans, she completed the Times crossword with particular speed. All but the quotation. Further irritated, she turned to the obituaries, which she always enjoyed. There she saw a picture of Professor Gerald Bravington, described as an eminent man of letters. She had not thought of him since the day he had given her a lift in the taxi. Now, she remembered, he had helped her with the Shelley quotation on a rainy morning such as this. He had struck her – in as far as she had thought of him at all – as being an eccentric old thing, nervous – not at all as he appeared on television – and pompous at the same time. Inquisitive, too. He had asked her questions about her life, she recalled, with an eagerness which had exceeded the bounds of mere politeness. Perhaps she should have been more friendly in return, but she was fed up with men pestering her, seeking her out for comfort and all the rest of it, but never offering permanence. Still, it was always a pity when someone of such ability died before his time.

Leonora Thorne turned back to the crossword. For some reason the news of the professor’s death inspired in her a determination not to be defeated by today’s quotation, at least. She read it again.

The whirligig of time brings in his–

The line was quite unknown to her, she had never been good on Shakespeare. But, with uncanny speed, the word was suddenly there, dazzling her mind.

Revenges, she wrote, and smiled to herself, knowing it was right.

Had there been time, she might have paused to reflect upon the strange coming of her inspiration. But the train was already drawing into Paddington. Leonora Thorne stood up, smoothed her scarlet coat with her navy glove, as was her daily habit, and thought of the fortune she was obliged to spend on taxis, these days, due to so much rain.

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collectorscorner · 3 years

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zodiactalks · 4 years

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Serial Killer Potential! According To Your Zodiac

The stars are not always 100% accurate in predicting our personalities. However, they can provide some pretty interesting and important insights to some aspects of our behaviours. We all can admit to having a dark side to us. Think about it! Even the bubbliest of individuals do tend to lean more on the morbid side of life at times. There seems to be something within us that finds comfort in morbidity. The question however remains, is the solace derived from the dark side of life enough to drive us into a murderous rage? Well, let’s see what the stars say shall we?

Aries (March 21 - April 19):

Aries are known for going for what they want no matter what. Is death a barrier they can simply overlook as a means to an end? Well, it turn out that it is for some. Serial killers such as Joseph Franklin, Donald Harvey, Paul Knowles, Keith Jespersen, Charles Sobhraj and Herbert Mullin are some of the headliners in the Aries serial killer hall of fame. Combined, their actions have been known to claim the lives of anywhere between thirty and slightly shy of sixty individuals. Aries clearly are a blood lusty lot but are they lustier than the rest of the zodiacs?

Taurus (April 20 - May 20):

Taurus seem to be giving the rest of the Zodiacs a run for their money as far as serial killer victims are concerned. While the number of notable killers may be on the lower end of the spectrum, the victims aren’t. Starting from the pioneer of the blood thirsty art of serial killing Mr. H. H. Holmes, fondly known as the Torture Doctor who has a record two hundred bodies under his belt to Martha Becks who has under twenty victims, Taurus serial killers have for sure carved their names into the walls of history. This zodiac also has a number of female contenders that are worth mentioning. We already talked about Martha Becks right? Well we can’t forget her sister in blood thirst, Amy Archer Gilligan. Other notable names worth dropping under this zodiac include The Moon Maniac (Albert Fish) and The Gorilla Killer (Earle Nelson).

Gemini (May 21 - June 20):

Do not be fooled by the bubbly, every cheerful nature of Geminis. This happy adventurous bunch seem to have a liking for spilling blood. Notable serial killing Geminis make up about twelve name sin the killer hall of fame. A good number of these individuals have an interesting story to them. They were often found to have certain mental health challenges and were seemingly masters of double lives. Combined, their known victims account for a minimum of one hundred and twenty four souls.

Since we have established a culture of notable name dropping let us continue shall we. For Geminis, we have The Son Of Sam, Jeffery Dahmer, Kenneth Bianchi, The Hill side Strangler, Milwaukee Strangler, Richard Chase, The Vampire of Dusseldorf, John Collins, Author Shawcross, Leonard Lake, Wayne Williams, Danny Rolling, Peter Sutcliffe, and Robert Lee Yates.

Cancer (June 21 - July 22):

Do not be fooled by their calm exterior. Cancers can be a rather ruthless bunch if pushed to a corner. While they have a few mentionable names, only four are worth mentioning. Genene Jones, John Reginald, Carl Panzram and Gary Heidnik combined have a minimum of ninety two victims whose murders can be directly linked to them. The blood lust of Cancers can be attributed to their ability to love with every fibre of their being as well as their moody tendencies. So better not cross a Cancer on a particularly moody day.

Leo (July 23 - August 22):

Leos are perhaps the least likely to be serial killers out of all the zodiacs. These gentle souls care more about enjoying life and all the mysterious and beautiful things it has to offer than getting irked by the little upsetting things that life throws at them. This, however, doesn’t mean that they are devoid of any mentionable names. Myra Hindley, Anthony Sowell and John Haigh together are responsible for the murders of at least twenty five victims.

Virgo (August 23 - September 22):

When it comes to blood thirsty traits, Virgo are serious contenders. If we are name dropping, then allow us to mention just but a few. To start us off, we have Henry Lee Lucas who is responsible for more than one hundred and fifty seven victims. Others in this list include Rodney Alcala, Paul Bernardo, Richard Angelo, Albert DeSalvo, Richard Biegenwald, Harrison Graham, Ed Gein, Marybeth Tinning and Gerald Stano. The ten combined have claimed the lives of at least three hundred and ninety seven people. Not only are these Virgo headliners known for their numbers, they are also known for their grim methods.

Libra (September 23 - October 22):

Libras have some of the most eclectic personalities in the zodiac yet have one of the least notable names in the serial killer hall of fame. Not to take away from their ‘glory’ but for the extremes that appear within this zodiac, four is an impressively low number. Patrick Kearney also referred to as The Freeway Killer is the star of this zodiac with a body count of up to forty three unfortunate souls. Fellow blood thirsty souls include Angelo Buono Jr., Bobby Joe Long and Gerald Gallego. Together, all four have a body count of at least seventy five people.

Scorpio (October 23 - November 21):

Scorpios are a unique bunch. This is the first zodiac to have a bloody duo; Alton Coleman and Debra brown. Another one of your mentionable killers is Carl Eugene. Other blood thirsty members of this camp include Charles Manson, Belle Gunness, Nannie Doss and William Heirens. These notable mentions are responsible for the loss of at least one hundred and sixty nine lives.

Sagittarius (November 22 - December 21):

For a people whose zodiac sign is half beast and half man, the likelihood of serial killer tendencies is high. While this zodiac has not attracted a large crowd of killers, it does have some of the more famous ones. Ted Bundy for example is a member of this cosmic family. He is not only renowned for his killing sprees but his successes at escaping the arm of the law even after it had caught up with him severally. Other notable mentions include Richard Cottingham, Edmund Kemper, Carlton Gray, and Denis Neilsen. Together, this murderous bunch have claimed the lives of at least seventy four people.

Sagittarius are known for their great conversational skills as well as their wits. It is no wonder that some would speculate that the number of serial killers under this zodiac that are yet to be discovered could be shockingly high.

Capricorn (December 22 - January 19):

It is natural for Capricorns to distance themselves from people. They do not trust easily and it takes a lot to get into their inner circle. Their natural distrust can tend to make them rather cold individuals. It is no wonder that the total body count of Capricon serial killer victims rises to as high as one hundred and nineteen. Our notable mentions under this zodiac include Dean Corll, Joe Ball, Ian Brady, Charles Ng, William Bonin, and Vincent Johnson.

Aquarius (January 20 - February 18):

Aquarius are another happy zodiac that does not seem to be blood thirsty. There are only four notable mentions under this zodiac with a combined body count of forty nine victims.

Pisces (February 19 - March 20):

Pisces are known to have two extremes. They can either be super relaxed individuals or super intense. It’s probably the latter that has seen them accrue at least twelve serial killers with a body count of at least two hundred and seventy nine victims.

Zodiac Talks YouTube Channel

#zodiac talks #Zodiac Signs #Zodiac #aries #cancer #capricorn #aquarius #taurus #scorpio #leo #libra #gemini #virgo #pisces #sagittarius #astrology #astrology signs #horoscope #astrology posts

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they-reap-what-we-sow · 4 years

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The Witcher Mall AU

so i’ve been yelling at @beeruler about this idea for the entire morning, but imagine if you will, geralt is not a witcher, but is a mall cop at Cintra Mall, and Jaskier works at the Cinnabon.

i have a LOT of thoughts about this so i’ll leave a couple here and the rest under the cut :)

Calanthe was set to retire from her job as a principal at a very fancy private school but then she found out that this mall was being demolished to make office space and she was not about that so she bought out the other owners to keep this mall running and now she is the owner of the mall along with her husband

Ciri is the granddaughter of the owner of the mall so everyone there loves her and she hangs out all the time after school. Calanthe worries about her mixing with people from the “wrong side of the tracks” or whatnot but it's hard to keep Ciri away because she found out that her father was from the other side of town and wants to find a connection to her roots

The Witchers are a security company that Calanthe hired to keep an eye on the mall. Ciri is unnecessarily close to all of them and they dote on her like a daughter. Dara is from the other side of the town and he and Ciri meet up at the mall to do what they think are cool things but really they just badly skate board, and loiter in front of no loitering signs. Eist thinks that hiring a security team full of ex-navy seals is a little excessive, but calanthe knows that it's the only way she can keep Ciri safe

Geralt knew Ciri's Dad when they were in the army together, and when he went down on the battlefield he asked Geralt to make sure that Ciri was okay. Geralt just checks on Ciri after the funeral and then leaves because she has the rest of her family, but Fate still gets in the way when the security company Geralt decided to work for starts working for the mall

i’ve got so many more hot takes and also some art under the cut keep goinggg

i call this my paul blart mall cop au, and i’ll tag everything for it under PB!Witcher if you want to follow it! oh, and there are more drabbles to come for this, i am WAYY too invested to let this one go

Geralt doesn't work full-time at the mall he takes private security jobs occasionally that help keep his bank balance well secured.

Whenever he notices someone's stealing from the big shops at the mall, Gerald will look the other way if it seems like they needed it desperately enough

He really doesn't intervene unless the theft will affect the bottom line of the store itself

Once Ciri found out that Geralt and her father used to be friends he has a hard time getting rid of his tail. As he makes his rounds around the mall he very often spots Ciri and her little friend attempting to follow him he presumes subtly

Whenever Ciri decides to hang out in the parking lot of the mall, in the back corner where there are no cameras Geralt often finds himself checking up on her. Which is a good practice because of that one time when Ciri got riled up and insulted someone who was saying rude things about Dara, and he had to come in and break up a fight between and and 11-year-old and a 20-year-old

geralt holding back siri by the scruff of her hoodie

Ciri full on throws herself into any fight available because she knows that somehow Geralt will find his way into it and defend her

Calanthe never liked Ciri's Dad, so she doesn't want Geralt influencing her granddaughter but she knows that Geralt is the only thing between Ciri and a very quick trip to the hospital

So she tolerates Geralt and what he reminds her of

Roach is a huge old pickup, it's like a really fancy classic one, and no one knows how Geralt can afford it ((it's the private jobs))

Yen is the owner of the occult cafe at the mall. It's called Aretuza, and you can make your own coffee there using really cool-looking potion bottles and spells and stuff. No one is really sure if her magic is real or not but the coffee is heavenly. The shop itself books normal from the outside but when you step in the entire atmosphere changes in it looks like you're 30 ft underground. The shop is carded and there is no entry allowed for anyone under 21. they don't serve alcohol there or gamble or anything but yen just doesn't want kids in her shop. Calanthe was originally against it but when she realized that it would keep Siri out of more ways to get into trouble she let the policy stand. There's a back room in the shop which that is rumored to be home to a lot of very adorable kittens, but the one rule of the back room is that you don't speak of the back room.

Even though it's the sketchiest looking shop in the mall, none of the security team ever has reason to go in and help out, Tissaia, the owner's girlfriend is force enough to make sure that everyone stays in line

Nilfgaard is a rival mall that keeps trying to compete with Cintra for customers and I don't know mall competition things

Borsch owns the cinnabon except that he got into a fight with the corporate office who didn't like the independence that borscht was taking with their menu so he's technically not a real cinnabon franchise. All he did though was add an M on the sign where the N should be, and operates how he likes. Tea and vea are the actual front-facing employees and they make a version of the cinnabon that is almost sinful and never quite seem to get burnt when pulling things out of the oven ((borsch runs a Cinnabom :) ))

Triss is upper-level mall management. Calanthe bought the mall but she doesn't really care to spend her time managing it, she just makes sure that it stays float and that nilfgaard keeps its hands off of it. She gets Triss on board to deal with everyone that she doesn't feel like dealing with. Triss handles all the communication between the store owners and the mall, she makes sure that everyone is getting along and deals with troublemakers as she sees fit. She's friends with yen's girlfriend, and spends a lot of her free time hanging out at their store. She knows Geralt because they met at a particularly messy private job of his which is something that bonds people. She's also the one who organizes the entertainment nights at the mall and is in charge of publicity and customer engagement. She's really good at her job she knows exactly what the people want to see and can calm angry egos and pissy customers

She also used to date one of the other witchers I really don't know who it would be but I think that'd be fun ((bees suggested eskel, which is fantastic))

i had to stop myself from making jaskier’s story all angsty again but oh well lol

Okay so Jaskier's family has their own law firm, and he was supposed to join after law school except Jaskier did not want to sit in an office all day instead he wanted to pursue his passion of music and singing so he moved out of the house and started singing on the streets for exposure. One day he meet s Missy Stael, who falls in love with his singing and they eventually move into her house together. Jaskier keeps singing and recording demos in hopes that someone will scout him and goes to a lot of open mics where he drags Missy to listen and critique. Jaskier and Missy eventually breaks up and he decides to move out and find another way to pursue his passion, but he has a hard time of it and ends up couch surfing for a while. Missy finds out and lets him rent her frankly extraordinary basement to live in, while she and her new boyfriend live upstairs. They're not bad landlords, and Jaskier goes over for dinner a couple times a week. Still now he has to find a way to pay rent that's already very generous when his income is usually little to none

Jaksier meets Yennefer when He's singing on the street. Yen walking with tissaia, who notices his sign that says tips for a roast. Tissaia tips him and he has asked for roasts the life out of the two of them and the end gets really mad because she doesn't know why this random street singers insulting her. She almost punches him out before she notices what the sign says, and the two become friends. Jaskier actually spends a couple weeks on her couch after his breakup, and when he tells her about needing an actual job to pay rent, she's got some ideas

The first time Geralt meets Jaskier isn't at the mall it's at a very exclusive party where jaskier has gotten a little too friendly with the host's younger sibling. Gerald comes along to escort Jaskier out of the party, who thinks he's going to die when this absolute mountain of a man grabs him by the arm and gently pushes him towards the door. As he's very quickly walking away Jaskier looks back to see Geralt haloed in the light of the doorway behind him, and Jaskier in that moment is more afraid and attracted than he's ever been

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geralds-little-art-corner · 1 month

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With season of nesting just starting I've been thinking about playing sky more often so here's a doodle board of my ocs fjndjxbsjznsj

#gerald's art corner #gerald's little guys #artists on tumblr #sky children of the light #sky cotl

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areiton · 4 years

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permanent markers - irondad

Happy birthday, Tony Stark!! Here, have fic.

Read on AO3

~*~

It’s the memorials, that triggers it.

Everywhere he goes, there’s the faceplate, Iron Man staring back at him, and it’s as painful as it is comforting. Karen doesn’t even ask about the spike in his heartbeat, when he swings past the familiar red and gold graffiti.

Sometimes, when he’s staring at a new memorial that’s sprung up, he wonders why it’s always the faceplate.

Why it’s never, never the arc reactor.

He thinks maybe it’s because Iron Man belonged to the world, and the arc reactor--that was easy to overlook in the face of the armor, and the imposing mask.

But that’s always been how the world treated Tony--the man was overlooked for the masks he wore.

The thing about the memorials is--they’re so temporal. Most are flowers scattered around the city, candles burning near street art. They last, a few days, before they’re cleared away, scrubbed down, removed.

There’s the memorial in Central Park, and at the foot of the Tower--the one to Mr. Stark and Cap and Natasha.

But the ones from the people, the ones that he sees, that haunt him--those never last.

And he wants something that lasts.

~*~

Johnny, it turns out, knows a guy.

Not a guy that can make it work, but that can do the basics, no questions asked.

Peter spends a week solid in the lab, trusts that Johnny will keep an eye on Queens, and when he emerges, he’s trembling, and giddy and there’s four new memorials up, scattered through the city as he swings through. He wonders how long they’ll last this time.

When it first happened--the months right after the Return, when he could barely breathe through the giddy relief of living and the bone crushing grief--there had been new memorials almost every hour. The city was a constantly changing canvas, and Iron Man--Iron Man stared back, grim and impassive and beloved.

Now--almost two years after the Return, after the world has pulled itself back together and healed--they come less frequently.

Still.

People haven’t forgotten.

Even when the memorials are wiped away--people haven’t forgotten.

~*~

“Can you use this?” he asks, and places the vials down on the table, tiny clinks of glass on mental. Johnny makes a quiet, curious noise, and the guy peers at Peter.

“Sure, kid,” he says, a smirk turning up his lips.

Peter smiles, and leans back against the chair, his wrist tilted up and bare.

When the needle bites into his skin, he exhales, and some of the tension in his belly goes loose and sweet and confident.

~*~

“Why not the faceplate?” Johnny asks, later. They’re eating hotdogs and walking through the streets and his wrist throbs, a faint ache that reminds him it’s real. It’s permanent.

“Because Mr. Stark wasn’t just his mask,” Peter says and Johnny frowns at him.

Peter smiles, leans over and kisses him quick and easy, and says, “Will you finish patrolling this week?”

Johnny makes a face, but catches his hand. “Yeah, babe. Whatever you need.”

~*~

The drive used to bother him. It’s two hours north of the Compound, a good three hours outside the city, and it used to grate, every long moment of dread and anticipation. Now--now it’s familiar, almost soothing, and he settles, deeper into his own skin, the further he drives.

It’s dark, when he finally pulls up to the lakeside cabin. Gerald blinks at him from his little lean-to, and the lights glow, a faint warm welcome.

“You’re late,” a familiar voice calls and his heart does that thing, the same one it does when he sees those memorials scattered through the city.

A tumble, a lurch of remembered grief and fear, cascading into bright hot relief and joy.

Because this is the truth--there are memorials and monuments for a man who died to save the world.

And the truth is this--he didn’t.

Against all odds--he lived.

Tony Stark lived. Iron Man--Iron Man died.

Peter thinks he can live with that, even if the rest of the world still mourns.

“You waitin’ up for me, old man?” Peter teases and Mr. Stark laughs, a faint huff in the darkness. He comes closer and smiles at Mr. Stark. “Happy birthday, Mr. Stark.”

“You haven’t been patrolling,” he says, instead of denying what they both know to be true, or addressing the reason for this weekend’s visit.

“Was working on a project,” Peter says, and rubs a finger over his wrist.

Mr. Stark waits, and Peter comes across the porch, sitting next to him and presenting his arm, wrist bare and visible.

He’s close enough that he can feel the hitch in Mr. Stark’s breathing. He’s close enough that Tony doesn’t try to hide it.

“Kid,” he breathes.

It’s simple. Delicate lines in arc reactor blue, shaping the heart of him. And scrawled, messy but distinct, that familiar handwriting that Peter adores--

Be Better.

“They still put up your faceplate, in the city,” he says. “And then they’re gone--memorials wiped away like dust.”

Tony’s arm comes around him and even though he’s too old for this, he burrows into him. His words press against Tony’s side. “You’re not just the mask the world sees, Mr. Stark. And no one can wipe this away.”

He knows. He’s been trying for days, and each time it doesn’t smudge or fade, relief sings in his veins.

A metal finger brushes over his skin now, hard enough that it hurts, a little, but the ink stays put.

“How?”

“Synthesized a special ink. Gave myself a low dose of that virus that knocked Bucky on his ass last summer, the one they found in Zemo’s place?” Peter shrugs.

Mr. Stark isn’t breathing. “You deliberately infected yourself and then permanently modified your body?” he says, his voice very precise.

Peter blinks at him.

“Jesus christ, Pete.”

“Tony, you literally put experimental tech in your chest. And Extremis, ok, that was pretty body altering,” he says. “And Steve--”

“Why am I being brought into this?” Steve asks from the doorway and Peter grins at him.

“No more tattoos,” Tony says, decisively.

“Maybe one more,” Peter says. “For May.”

Tony’s eyes soften, and he squeezes Peter close, and Peter leans against him, the soft blue glow of the arc reactor lighting the corner of the porch, settling him in his skin, reminding him--he’s home.

#arei writes fic #tony stark #peter parker #irondad #tony and his kids #stony #steve rogers #superhusbands #superfamily #tony stark's birthday #this is sappy fluffy with a side of angst #because why not

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freddy-ryland · 3 years

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scene ii: the art of memory

turn up the volume I'm not listening the dialogue is static and I start to panic and the music fades

The dull roar in her ears was familiar as she stepped out of the glowing green flames, hurrying forward a few steps to make room for the tell-tale whoosh of a similar traveler. The teenager was sure to wipe her sooty palms off on a handkerchief, straightening out her jumper before approaching the visitor's desk. There was a long winding line behind the little gate, stamped with the Ministry Seal, but she sidestepped it and waited for the man to wave at her.

There were a few noises of annoyance as Freddy cleared the line, but a singular glare from the attending Auror shut them up. Freddy patted Amara Bone's arm, who flushed and continued to stand ramrod straight. The elder Hufflepuff had always been kind to her at Hogwarts; she'd woken up with Amara carrying her back to her room many times after passing out around the castle. Amara always cut a surprisingly imposing figure, despite being one of the softest people Freddy had met in her life.

"Another top-secret meeting with our magical mimes eh Lil' Ry," The man had a shockingly bad case of bedhead and a lazy eye, he told her tales that he popped the eye out during the war to scare Snatchers so he could get the drop on them in a fight, and it never healed right. "Thinkin' that you might as well become a mime yourself, missus."

"Gerald, I think I've had my fill of our devout Unspeakables," she flashed him a smile as he continued to process her wand, a rigid formality, "and I've every intention to make a grand escape of them once I graduate."

"A grand escape, eh?"

"Oh yes, it's all very planned out, our lovely chats will come to an end. I'll be sure to send you a postcard." She had a map of every place she wanted to see, already marked up and pasted to her wall.

"You do that girl," Gerald smiled, he was missing his front tooth, and it always gave his words a distinctive whistling sound, "you get outta here an' far away from those mimes before they trap you in their circus."

"I was thinking of joining the circus actually, as a fortune-teller. Get some real-world experiences," Freddy grinned, "though I have plenty of experience working with mimes and clowns." Gerald's whistling laugh followed her through the marbled Atrium as she squeezed by, fixating her visitor's badge to the front of her sweater.

More than a few ministry workers recognized her, between Micah and Uncle Kinglsey and her Mum being the Healer for the rich and pure, Freddy had been around these halls since she was born. Most offered small smiles and mayne some gently awkward small talk and returned to their lives. An older red-haired woman held the elevator door open for her as Freddy thanked her profusely, having nearly missed it after being waylaid by some friend-of-Mom's-patients-nephew. It wasn't unusual to see teenagers at the Ministry, between internships and family, but it was unusual to see 'Department of Mysteries' embossed on her visitor's badge. It earned her a few looks on the crowded elevator so Freddy simply smiled and watched the arrow tick. Slowly the overfilled elevator began to empty until it was just Freddy left. Kicking her heels against the ground, the teenager started to gently sweat under her loose top, a pit opening as she watched the arrow tick down and down towards 9.

Finally, the door opened, and the Hufflepuff stepped out into the Atrium, a cold desolate place. The floors were disconcertingly white, the kind of white that reminds you of dying, shined to such a high polish that Freddy could see up her own skirt. The walls were covered in etched runes and spells in Latin, Greek and possibly more than a few ancient, dead languages. There were no portraits adorning the sparse walls, only four statues in each corner of the room, all of which were humans in some sort of distorted way. Unspeakable Hawkins once told her they were reminders of how the human soul can twist when experimenting with unknown magic, a warning of sorts to the workers. A reminder. One she didn't need as Freddy looked away from the child chimera hybrid writhing on the ground below the impatient glare of an older woman who held a gnarled rod above it’s body. There was a distinctive clicking noise that was the only sound in the room, and Freddy moved towards it, keeping a careful eye on the statues.

The Hufflepuff hated when they moved, or decided to watch her.

A woman sat behind a similarly Spartan desk, typing away and glaring at the man sitting at the lone mid-century chair that looks like a child's under his bulk and stature. His shock of royal purple and gold robes were dazzlingly out of place in this room, and as the receptionist sniffed at Freddy in her voiceless greeting, Kingsley Shacklebolt looked up. His lips pulled into a comfortingly wide smile.

"Uncle King?" Freddy hurried across the marble, taking care not to slip on the slick surface, "what are you doing here?"

"Just wanted to check on your progress with Madame Basnet--"

"Unspeakable Basnet, Mr. Shacklebolt," the receptionist, Alisha snapped, her box braids whipping around her head so she could level a cold glare at him, "do remember her title, Sir." The clack! clack! clack! continued it's metronome and paper continued to feed into it with twitches of her pinky.

"Forgive me, Madame Kieta," his grin might’ve been charming to anyone else but the living statue at the desk.

Her face pinched returning to her typing, the clack of the typewriter going faster as the door in front of them began to open. Freddy never understood how she opened it when her fingers never left the typewriter. "Mr. Shacklebolt has already taken his Vow of Silence, he may enter. As for you, Ms. Ryland, the statues will tell if you've been following your end of the contract."

Following her end of the contract, a contract she took when she was still a child and was somehow so binding it made her keep having to coming here every goddamn week. Just the notion of still being forced by a decade old scrap of parchment was enough to make her want to cuss Ms. Kieta out.

But, Uncle Kingsley held his arm out, and in the fashion of any proper young woman of magical society, she took it with a gentle bob of her knees. Long schooled into her by her Mum. She kept her mouth shut, teeth grinding on sharp words until they became soft powder.

The statue from the corner crawled over as they crossed the invisible barrier between the rest of the world and the Department of Mysteries. It was an eyeless thing, mouth carved open and gapping with marble streaks of drool. Truly it would’ve been an impressive piece of art if it wasn’t so gruesome. Its movement caused a grinding sound of stone on stone; the magicked creature prowled around her ankles before coming up behind her shoulder.

Freddy stood stock still, eyes screwing tight. She'd seen what happened when someone broke their Silence Vows, and the statue found it. The teen remembered how fast they moved and the high-pitched whistling sound they made for an alarm. She remembered how the woman's skull cracked when marble met marble with a body between. Freddy had been tugged in by Unspeakable Ellie, and sat down with comforting head pats from folk who didn’t know how to pet a cat without being constipated.

The teenager let out a sigh, not unlike a balloon, as the statue nudged her hand, cold and hard, before retreating to its sentry position in the corner.

"Horrible creatures," Kingsley whispered; his knuckles were white, and the bulge of his biceps were stone beneath her tightened grip, "wholly unnecessary for someone of your position." For all that he was a war hero her Uncle always did take far too much pride in their family position at the Ministry, but that was just pureblood upbringing for you.

"The Department must have their protections, even from someone overly familiar."

Kingsley made a noise of disapproval before they entered the real Atrium. The place was a madhouse in truth, positively Frankenstienan compared to the cold room they just left. Messenger papers were flying above their heads and the distant sound of a boom. Desks were smashed together while massive runes covered thick paper; one desk was dedicated to writing implements -- quill, pen, pencil, charcoal, blood ink, unicorn blood ink, paint, chalk. In addition, there was a large bookcase stretching from floor to ceiling and filled to bursting with papers, books, and more than a few stone tablets.

Unspeakable Hawkins was rushed past, jostling a cauldron and a papyrus scroll. He offered a cursorary wave before cursing as he tripped over a series of tangled wires. In a distant corner, Freddy noted a man talking to himself, Keith? Kai? Kyle? She couldn't remember his name, nor what they spoke of, nor anything about him. His name started with a 'K,' and he always looked half beaten to death with exhaustion. Unspeakable Ellie (who refused her surname for security purposes) was orchestrating a jostling crowd of marmosets, succulents, several hummingbirds, and a single cacti in a floating box headed towards a door marked with green. Freddy could see the bone thorns on her shoulders and arms peeking between the folds of her bulky Unspeakable robe even from this distance. There were doors all around them, moving in and out of existence. It reminded Freddy remarkably of Lib-Con, without the fun of it. Only hurried, furious magical workings, the scent of stale coffee and the ambiance of lab rats on a wheel chasing only certain death via science (or magic). The doors that led to the various Halls of Magic were locked to her personally, but employees busted in and out at breakneck pace. The smaller doors belonged to offices and various other tinkering workshops where booms and clangs shook the floor and no-one batted a single eyelash. It was an orchestra of chaos, with no conductor keeping track, time or tempo.

Above all the noise Cassandra Basnet walked like a whisper, in a tight business uniform that seemed more in place with the Department of Law Enforcement. Not even a single item of turquoise or jade adorned her person, no jangle of obtrusive jewelry or an obnoxious scent of sage or patchouli marked her for a Divination expert like others in the field. There were no stray tea leaves or frog spawn in her pockets, nor a deck of tarot cards in hand. Hair pulled back in such a severe bun that it would make Headmistress McGonagall wince. Yet, even with the power walk of a misandrist girlboss, no one could deny that Unspeakable Basnet is beautiful with her high cheekbones and startlingly green eyes, always decorated with minimal make up and on occasion wire frame glasses. Her walk slowed, dodging desks, the tenseness in her arms softened as she came closer before wrapping Freddy into a familiar hug, tugging her straight from her Uncle's arms.

Freddy tensed but hugged back, politely but wincing as she felt the surprisingly heavyweight of Cassandra's arm. It was a show of dominance, and all parties knew that as she pulled away, keeping a possessive arm around Freddy's shoulders.

"Mr. Shacklebolt, I had no idea you'd be joining our little shindig today." Her smile was florescent bright. "My little crystal didn't send a word."

"I simply wanted to do a quick drop-in. It's so difficult to plan these sorts of things these days."

"Well, I am always happy to have someone of your esteem in our halls. Come to my office. Today is hectic, we've had more than a few breakthroughs, so everyone is very excited. They'd probably want to drag Freddy to show off, and we can't have that."

Moving through the zoo, they found a deep maroon door that came into the similarly stark office, the wall covered in crystal balls, palmistry books, more than a few photos of Freddy in various states of having a Sight or Vision. Several papers on her desk and a bronze paperweight in the shape of a jaguar, which Freddy knew to be her Patronus. A plush couch pushed up against the wall with a gauzy veil over it to block light. Freddy had passed out many times on that couch after long days working with her powers and had woken up an unknown number of times under a heavy weighted blanket that laid folded up neat against the arm. The desk was minimalistic, and there was a single dark brown leather armchair in front of it, where Kingsley settled his imposing mass into, without so much as an invitation, lounging like a panther.

Freddy dropped herself onto the couch, pulling her sweater tighter around herself, wishing with all her might that a pit would open beneath her butt and drop her from this incredibly awkward situation.

"So, Mr. Shacklebolt, have you any questions about Freddy's instruction here with me? Concerns?" She kept her voice even and relaxed, puttering around the office shuffling and filing papers, pulling out an all too familiar folder more than three inches thick. Quills marched to their places on the desk with muttered incantations. She was absolute crap at wordless magic for all of Basnet's abilities, and her wandless magic was abysmal. All in all, Freddy regarded her as a less than average witch, but no one could deny that she had some sorta latent power and her mind was a whetstone on which she sharpened it.

"Just wish to observe as much of Freddy's instruction as possible. Our family has begun to worry that perhaps she has grown stagnant in this environment. Our Freddy may need some more... varied instruction" though his tone remained polite, there was a distinct sense of 'fuck you' in each curated word. She knew her parents were worried, but she hadn't realized how nervous her Mom had asked her esteemed cousin to attend. "You know, young wix, always needing to be pushed in the right direction, teachers can make or break a future."

"Of course, however," Basnet pulled down several more books and smiled, "there is a point where I will have to ask you to leave. Your Vow of Silence only goes so far when it comes to more... delicate magical workings."

"I will respect that; however, if Freddy should ask me to stay, then I'd like to push that envelope."

"We'll see if you have any questions--"

"Believe me," his eyes flickered towards Freddy before back to Basnet, steel entering his voice, "I will speak up."

"Alright, now," Basnet turned her piercing gaze onto the teenager who squirmed in her seat, "Freddy, what did you have for breakfast?"

It seemed a harmless question if it weren't for the fact that she couldn't remember.

"I believe I had some toast and tea."

"Do you believe or know?"

"Believe," Freddy answered, clipped and strangled.

Basnet noted something down on parchment, "This morning, what time did you wake up?"

"Seven o'clock; I went for a walk with Micah." She could smell the lavender, see the brick they walked on. She was sure of that.

"Where did you walk to?"

"The shops down the road had to pick up some things." The man greeted them, or was it his daughter? What day was it... Tuesday? His daughter then.

"What things? List them."

"Milk, bread, some cleaning supplies for mum. I wanted one of their cookies."

"Flavor?"

"Chocolate." Her fingers ran over the packaging still in her pocket, the embossed words 'Ghirardelli' guiding her answer.

"Good, you had breakfast when you came home?"

"Yes, I had a small vision while we were walking, just a flash."

"What was it?"

"A child screaming."

Basnet frowned, "Just a flash?"

"Just her and the sound, then it went away, lasted less than half a second."

Kingsley was watching Basnet's hands like a hawk, no doubt trying to decipher what she was writing.

"So you believe you had breakfast, then you came straight here."

"Yes." Freddy shifted her weight.

"Who helped you at the Visitors Gate?" The question came fast, a little voice in her head that sounded suspiciously like Tierney whispered 'Your Mom.'

"Gerald, we chatted for a few minutes, nothing crazy. He was asking about my plans for post-grad." she ground her teeth. "I told him I was leaving after graduation, maybe to join a circus." That earned her two eye-rolls from both adults. "I said I had enough experience working with mimes and clowns." Basnet sneered and continued to jot things down.

"Who was the Auror on guard?"

Freddy stopped.

Fuck. Wait, no, she had seen them. They had waved them through. She knew them, but their faces were blurred. Their robes weren't trimmed with any color.

"I'm not sure of their name!" She answered brightly, "I don't know everyone in the Auror Department." She hoped the lie would stick.

But Basnet pressed further, steepling her fingers and peering at her over the tips of her chipped manicure. "Who were they, Freddy? Surely you would know most of the Aurors; give me an image, a gender."

"Now it's insulting to assume they use one of the binary genders, Madame Basnet!" Freddy was grasping at straws now, plowing through her memory over and over again. Who was standing there? Had they smiled? Did Freddy touch them? Sometimes the Aurors give her high fives or slip her a candy. She patted her pockets; they were empty except for the cookie wrapper and some lint. So who was at the Gate? "I can't-- I don't. I wasn't paying attention."

"It was Auror Amara Bones," Freddy's mouth went dry, and unshed tears came to her eyes, "but you can't remember that can you? Who held the door open for you on the elevator?" It was a woman, right? Freddy began to tug on the sleeves of her sweater. Maybe it was a man, a tall man? That didn't seem right... "What did you have for dinner last night? Who did you have lunch with last week? What is the name of the delivery boy at your work?"

Questions began to pile up before Freddy finally shook her head.

"I--"

"What. Is going on." Kingsley stood from his chair, coming around to press a hand to the top of Freddy's head. "What are you badgering her for?"

"Short-term memory loss," Basnet finally said, "her memory it's," she wiggled her fingers, "going wonky for lack of a better term. Her power is a mental one. The more it gets used, the stronger it gets, the more it affects the brain."

"What does that mean?"

"What it means, Mr. Shacklebolt is that Freddy is losing her memories, short blips of time are being lost in her day-to-day life, and your visions are getting stronger, more detailed, aren't they? What did your vision smell like?"

"Piss." It came sharp, "The child was screaming and smelled like pee, the ground was brick, and it was cold out."

"All that in a flash requires a mind to remember. As they get stronger, her daily memories get lost."

"What is your plan?"

Basnet shook her head, "There really isn't one; we can just continue to manage the Visions, work on keeping them longer or stopping them when they start. But the memory loss is a side effect, like her migraines, like her nosebleeds. So it can only be managed, not healed."

"So what you're telling me is that all this is a waste of our goddamn time?" Kingsley was angry now, but his voice boomed from deep within his chest. "She is coming here just to have you manage her?

"Teach her to handle it better, Mr. Shackle--"

"Get up, Freddy," the teenager flinched as Kingsley seemed to dominate the room, though Basnet sat pristinely and seemingly unaffected at her desk, "we are leaving. I will not have you waste your time as it gets worse."

"Freddy, stay."

The teenager hovered at the couch, her fists tightening under their equal gaze.

"Freddy, you know you can't leave yet, don't you?" Basnet's voice was sugar-sweet, "Your time isn't up today, as agreed upon."

Persephone chose her place with Hades, she decided to eat the pomegranate seeds, and Freddy desperately wished to throw hers up.

"Uncle... The contract says 8 hours a week during non-school time. I can't leave yet."

Her Uncle was breathing thunderclouds before sitting back down in the chair, "Continue," he ground out.

Slowly Freddy walked through last week. She could count up at least 20 instances of purely lost memory. More than 50 flashing visions, and 5 of the longer ones. They continued to record and tally up each one until finally they were done at the two-hour mark. Taking a deep breath, Freddy leaned against the back of the couch, her legs pulled up against her chest despite being far too tall for such a position.

"I think that is enough for the day," Basnet finally hummed, "We can make up the hours later this week, perhaps Friday?"

"Sure, I don't work that day."

"Excellent, now I want you to keep a notebook, make notes of when you forget things. Then, start playing some muggle brain games. I've heard Sudoku is helpful, and we'll talk to St. Mungo's about their memory-impaired patients and what they do. So that'll be my homework." Freddy nodded, hopping off the couch and stretching out her tensed limbs as her Uncle stood by the door, opening it.

"Mr. Shacklebolt," the man didn't look at her, "next time, do tell me when you plan on dropping by, we can have a more formal session planned, and it won't be as startling then while we do our work."

"Thank you for your time. Freddy, let's go."

The duo strode through the Department Atrium. They passed into the white marble room, where the receptionist quirked a brow. She knew that Freddy's sessions were usually much longer. Then they stepped into the elevator, and with a murmured silencing charm, Kingsley looked down at her.

"I want to see that contract."

"Dad has it."

"I want a legal team to search it," there was a lightness in her chest, "she is a goodman quack, you are getting worse, and your control is minimal at best."

Freddy grimaced because, in truth, it was better than it had ever been, but neither her Uncle nor Basnet needed to know that. She didn't need Basnet poking around her head any more than she usually did.

"We can find other help. There are many bright wix in the world who can help you, other Seers."

"I know. But we need to stop talking about it, the wards..." watching the arrow tick up and up.

"Of course," they both fell silent as the voice rang out -- "8th Floor!"

Freddy leaned against her Uncle's arm, and he curled her tighter against him.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, "I had no idea how bad your condition has gotten." She nodded slowly, trying not to let a tear fall. "We'll get you out of this contract, get you some real help. Basnet has done well with your control, but frankly, it's not enough anymore."

"She tried--" Freddy started weakly before closing her jaw together with a click. The wards were in place, and Freddy was far too terrified to talk too much about what Basnet had her doing. What envelopes she was pushing. Freddy could only think of the swirls of the room, the way she'd wake up, her memory blank and energy drained, the way she'd vomit blood up, and the glare of a timer going far, far past the agreed 10-minute mark. Breaking the Vows of Silence for the Department of Mysteries led to tragedy. Though Freddy had looser restrictions than any regular Unspeakable, she hardly wanted to test the boundary here.

"Trying to use the wrong family's kid is what she’s trying to do.” He was tense, every inch of him and every movement militaristic. “I'll have the Head of the Department investigate her. Then we'll see where we're at with getting you a new teacher. I’ll speak with my Mother, she has connections with the other magical schools." So this really was a family matter.

But, Freddy knew that it would take a lot more than the Shacklebolt name thrown around to get her out of the contract. But she let her Uncle have the optimism and simply let him crack jokes and tell funny anecdotes for the rest of the elevator ride up. Freddy popped in on occasion, exchanging a quip or describing a new story about her friends from school and things going on at the candy shop.

Freddy hardly noticed they were already at the Visitor's Gate, a low thrumming headache forming at the back of her skull. She rubbed gently at her eyes; they were aching too. Maybe she ought to get checked at St. Mungo's to see if they could get her any more potent headache potions.

"Gerald! I didn't know you were working today."

"Huh, lassie? You were just here, not even 3 hours ago? I checked you in, remember?" Gerald gently took her visitor's badge, "We were chatting..."

Freddy's face fell, and Kingsley tensed as she tripped over her words before finally exiting. Amara stood there, concern blatant; Freddy peered up at her before sharply turning away. They paused at the fireplaces, and Freddy looked at Kingsley, tears in her eyes, and whispered quietly. He seemed deep in thought.

"Uncle King?"

"Hmm?"

"Do you know if I Flooed in this morning?"

Kingsley Shacklebolt looked down on her, a feat with her height, and gently slid his hand into hers and tugged her into the Floo, gently calling out "Ryland Residence, Falmouth."

Freddy let her world go up in flames and didn't remember stepping out of them this morning.

#scene ii: the art of memory #sp #sp: the art of memory #on freddy #freddy ryland

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fogsrollingin · 4 years

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Title: in this house, ch 2 Author: fogsrollingin Fandom: Supernatural Story details: Sam & Dean, rated PG-13, 2k words. Summary: getting out of this house. My next entry for @whumptober2020! Prompts filled are no. 14 brand & no. 15 magical healing & no.31 torture A/N: all my amazing readers who let me know they wanted more of this story (when I’d planned it to just be a very intense one-shot, here we gooooo! 😆 Chapter 1 on Tumblr || Full story available on AO3 || Fanfiction.net too || INCREDIBLE art inspired by this fic: Hurt Sam by @midnightsilver on tumblr, uncensored version on pillowfort and now also on AO3!

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ in this house ch2 ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Furniture crashed overhead, Dean's team of hunters fighting, feet pounding over the floorboards, the sounds of screaming, hissing vampires. Sometimes their sounds would stop abruptly, then a heavy thunk to indicate their decapitated melons had just hit the floor and it was like music to Dean's ears. Macabre as it may be, it was a dream come true right now as he huddled in this cage with his brother shaking and clinging to him out of his mind with fear.

Sam had cleared up enough to say his name though. That was a start. Dean thought about their next moves. Or tried to. He blinked his eyes, shook his head, summoning the wherewithal to get brain's gears back online.

Damn it, you planned for this! Dean scolded himself. The harder he focused, the stronger this rushing feeling bubbled out overwhelming him, filling his senses up with cotton and getting him too jittery to think straight.

"Fuck," Dean muttered, hauling his shivering, traumatized little brother up against him closer. Sam went with it. Dean ducked his own head into his brother's disgusting hair. They were wasting time. He kept telling himself that to spur himself into action but... there were so many things, so many ways Dean could help Sam and as he ran down the mental list of them he just didn't know which came first.

Dean didn't know how long they stayed like that hugging each other in the cage like they weren't free, like Dean had simply joined his brother enslaved inside. It felt like a purgatory Dean could live with. After everything they'd been through, to just be together even in that cage was enough.

"Hey, okay guys," a low voice smoothed over them. Sam didn't react but Dean recognized Mallory's voice. She was a medic turned hunter that'd arrived last week with her friend, Gerald. She hovered over the cage's door.

She moved and Dean couldn't see, her dark brown skin and black outfit perfect camouflage. "Don't!" Dean begged. Sam scuttled closer. Dean didn't know what he was begging for. Don't come into the cage? Don't shatter this moment? Don't you touch him?

Thundering steps of so many people erupted behind her. Sam yelped and Dean grunted, clutching Sam back.

"Stop!" Mallory ordered and the feet coming down the stairs did as they were told. Dean heard some jubilance in their tones, wanting to clear the basement of these blood suckers and high five Dean. Instead Mallory's voice rang out crystal clear. "Go clear the rest of the house. Burn the bodies out back. I want Gerald down here though. Gerald?"

"Yeah, here," a man replied softly, an easy gait stepping down the stairs past the others who'd started making their way back up. He appeared next to Mallory and crouched down with her to talk. His skin was a little lighter than hers' so Dean could make him out in the dark better. He was biting his nails looking at them, brows furrowed with worry.

"I'd like you to stay down here. Make sure no one's in the other cages."

"You got it," he murmured softly. He got up slowly in deference, it seemed, and moved away.

"All right. Dean?" Mallory asked.

"Y-yeah," Dean gruffed from the human ball they'd made, the two of them curled around each other so tight now. Dean didn't want it to end but somewhere in the back of his mind he was reminding himself that Mallory and Gerald were the best, his favorites. He couldn't remember exactly why. His brain was fried right now but he responded to her voice.

Something slid into the cage out of the corner of his eye, Mallory pushing his backpack inside within reach of him. The first aid kit was in there, a water bottle, some of Sam's clothes, hot chemical packs, an emergency blanket. Dean had packed everything he could think of.

"Do you want me to come in?" Mallory asked evenly.

Dean stared at the backpack and shook his head.

"Can I walk you through this?"

Dean's face screwed up and he let out a sob. He nodded though.

"Okay Dean, it's okay. You're doing great. You've got your brother. He's safe now. You're gonna take care of him. You two will be home eating takeout at a shitty motel in no time," she lied with so much charm and Dean was nodding in agreement, engaged, growing more and more aware.

"Now what you gotta do first is lay Sam down and examine him, Dean. You gotta know how hurt he is. Cuts, bruises, broken bones, come on Dean, you gotta see."

Dean nodded to Mallory, his face still buried in Sam's hair. "Okay, okay Sammy, you ready?"

Sam shuddered but let Dean gently pry him free until he was sitting. Dean wasn't going to make him lie down.

"Sam, where does it hurt?" Dean asked stiffly. Mallory waited behind him patiently and he felt better she wasn't pressuring him. Dean might have had a minor freakout just now but he still had the last say on how to handle his brother.

Sam shivered and shook. "It doesn't."

"What?"

"Hungry."

Dean heard Mallory scrambling at the backpack, the sound of little pretzel bags crinkling before one landed next to Sam's feet. Sam grabbed it and tore into it.

A rolling sound and Dean turned to see Mallory had pushed the water bottle to tumble its way to them. Dean grabbed it and put it within Sam's reach.

"Sam... can I take a look at you?" Dean asked hesitantly as Sam wolfed down the last of the pretzels. Mallory threw another one and without acknowledging her Sam pounced on the second helping.

"They'd heal me. After the torture. Magic." He spoke quietly between crumbly breaths. "Except here." He twisted and lifted his leg to show his right thigh.

Dean tilted his head to see, Mallory squinted and leaned forward.

Dean swore. Mallory gasped.

"Sammy what the fuck is that?"

"It's a brand," Sam replied wetly.

Gerald came back just then, his steps silent and graceful. "Nobody."

Mallory took Gerald's hand and squeezed. "Could you tell the others to go? These two-"

"I understand. I'll tell 'em," Gerald whispered. "I'll be upstairs if you need anything." He squeezed her hand back and made his way.

Dean turned back to his brother. "Sammy, can I-?" he asked as he moved in to look at the wound again. Sam nodded and leaned against the cage wall for balance as Dean lifted his right knee up to see again. If Sam was embarrassed by Dean's proximity to his twig and berries he didn't show it. He'd slowed his snacking, interspersing pretzel bites with gulps from the water bottle. He seemed dazed, but it was a definite level up from what he'd been before.

Dean ducked and examined Sammy's leg. He clenched his jaw so as not to disturb whatever shell-shocked peace Sam was in right now but damned if he didn't want to curse up a storm right now.

All Sam's leg hair had been burned off, in its place deep carvings in a design Dean couldn't even begin to make out with so much scabbing and swollen skin marring it. All the cuts had needed stitches but instead they'd been reopened repeatedly. It was red, moist with pus, clearly infected.

Dean set Sam's leg down and felt his forehead. He glanced back at Mallory. "He needs antibiotics."

"He need a hospital?"

Dean got himself up into a kneel, put his hands on his knees and stared at his voracious brother chowing down on a fourth packet (if he'd kept count correctly) of pretzels. "No. No I can take him, I think."

Mallory scooted in and Dean let her. She was holding a huge white square of gauze the size of his hand. There were ugly brown lines glazed on it where she'd applied the antiseptic. Dean looked at her for a second. She looked up and understood what he needed.

"We're gonna bandage the injury so we can get him dressed. And then we're gonna get him out of this cage and then we're gonna move him out of this house."

Dean's eyes watered and he nodded. She gave him the medical tape.

"Okay, okay, okay," Dean muttered to himself, getting into position. "Sammy, you ready?"

"Yeah."

Dean pressed the bandage gently along Sam's flayed flesh and Sam only whimpered once, breathed heavily through the rest of it as Dean taped. Dean knew it meant his pain tolerance had heightened. The heavy weight of that knowledge settled sick in his stomach. It would never go away. "So good, good job Sammy, so brave, you got this," Dean babbled, not paying attention to what he was even saying anymore.

The instant he was done, Mallory handed him Sam's black cotton sweatpants he'd brought and he helped Sam into them. Next was a plain white t-shirt. Sam moaned and reached for Dean a couple times. He'd fall against his chest for a break to catch his breath and Dean would hold him through it, rub his back, tell him he smelled awful.

They scooted Sam out of the cage, taking care not to jostle him. Dean felt lighter as they crossed the threshold, the repulsive air of a torture dungeon still somehow fresher now they were out of that godforsaken cage.

"Gonna have this thing melted down," Dean gruffed.

He got under Sam's arm, Mallory under the other, and together they counted to ten to lift Sam up so he could walk.

Sam groaned and weakly placed his feet flat on the floor, a valiant attempt to take some of his weight but they were lifting him too fast.

Mallory and Dean were softly congratulating him as he rose almost to full height. He gave them a strained smile before closing his eyes and passing out.

Dean's alarmed shouts for Sam to wake up again mingled with Mallory's yells for Gerald as they both struggled to give Sam a controlled fall.

Gerald pounded down the stairs and stopped at the tableau before him. Mallory out of breath and stressed as she refastened her pony tail with hands trembling with adrenaline. Dean hovered over his brother solicitously. The kid was clothed now which was a plus for Gerald, yet unconscious, a new minus.

"We need some muscle, sugar," Mallory explained. "Sam passed out."

Gerald came around and crouched down on Sam's other side across from Dean. "Well now I'm really happy you put clothes on the kid," he joked good-naturedly. Dean huffed. Gerald looked down. "So this is your little brother, huh?"

"Yep." Dean's chin quivered. He brushed Sam's hair off his face.

Gerald patted his back a few times. "C'mon, get it together."

Dean nodded, rubbed his face. "Right, okay, uh. We gotta do a two-person carry because he's injured. Back of his right thigh is fucked up."

"Got it."

Gerald got Sam's broad shoulders, Dean his brother's long legs, and together they tromped up the stairs.

"Should burn the whole house down," Gerald muttered as they hit the landing. Mallory followed up. She opened the emergency blanket and let it fall over Sam as Dean and Gerald carried him through the house. There were no bodies, no heads, only the blood stains in the grooved, pockmarked floorboards stood testament to the righteous slaughter carried out less than an hour ago.

"I couldn't agree more," Dean said as he watched Gerald fold into the backseat of the Impala, carrying Sam in with him. The emergency blanket crinkled and fell to the ground. As soon as Sam's butt cleared the seat, Dean set his feet down. He took Sam's shoulders and let Gerald get out through the other side.

"Wait," Sam whispered. Dean froze and looked down.

"Sam? Sammy? You with us?"

Sam's eyes rolled under his lids. He swallowed and nodded. "Wait."

"For what?"

"To burn it. I wanna..." Sam wheezed and coughed. "be there. For it."

A rush of relief slipped down Dean's spine and spread out, warming him.

"Damn straight, little brother. You'll throw the first match."

Sam chuckled thickly. "Yeah." His head fell onto Dean's shoulder, passed out again. Dean kept his arm around Sam even when he noticed the kid was drooling on him.

They were gonna be okay.

Fin

A/N: Marking this as complete again but hey who knows I might tack on another chapter - that branding is a mystery that might be worth exploring 👀😆

Thank you so much for reading! Please comment/kudos/reblog/vote/give to charity on my behalf (hahah) if you can spare the time

Happy Ides of October! 🎃🍂 xoxo ~ Alex.

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