#and i looked it up when i got home and was gonna reorder and my mom was like yknow what you can just get a smaller size now

[ilostyou]

.

[patdkoala]

New Neighbor

Pairing: Sam Claflin x Female Reader

Warnings: None This is Pure Fluff

LET ME KNOW IF YOU WANT A PART TWO I kinda want a part two

I just moved into my new apartment complex. It's nice. Clean. Quiet. And it's mostly filled with actors and actresses so the people that live here are rarely home anyway.

I'm a writer. So, I'm always home.

I sit in my apartment, turn on my ambiance lamp, have my record player on a constant rotation of my favorite tunes, and then have my cup of tea.

I will sit there and write for hours on end. If all goes well, I will have written a page and a half during those hours.

I never said I was a good writer. I'm speaking from experience.

One day I was getting home late. (I was sitting at Mcdonald's for two hours just reordering a large fry with a large Dr. Pepper.) I had just stepped out of the elevator and I heard the apartment door next to mine open and then close.

My neighbor was finally home.

For as long as I'd lived here, they had never been home. I've lived here for two years.

I set my giant Dr. Pepper cup on the counter along with my keys and wallet. I turned on my lamp and record player.

I turned it up on full volume like I have been doing for the past two years. I sat down at my desk and started to write about the people I was staring at in McDonald's. Then I heard three knocks at my door.

Quite loudly too if I must say.

"Jeez, I'll be right there!" I yelled as I ran over to the door to answer it.

I opened the door and I shit you not the guy standing there looked like that Billy Dunne fella from that Amazon show I was watching late last night.

"Excuse me, but do you mind turning that down? I'm trying to run lines and we have thin walls," He said as I just stood there and stared at him.

"Are you-" "Yes, I am the man from the tv. Now, do you mind turning that down?" He said in a grumpy old man tone that made me roll my eyes and go to turn it off.

I left the front door open and when I went back over to it, he was gone. So I shut the door and did what any sane person would do, I googled him.

'Main guy from Daisy Jones show'

Sam Claflin. Okay, so I googled something else.

'Sam Claflin movies'

So I watched some.

Okay, I watched all of them. Plus, I finished all of Daisy Jones and started Peaky Blinders.

A few days later, I realized I hadn't written anything for days. I'd been sitting on the couch ordering food to my door and only getting up to use the restroom or answer the door.

I decided to cool it on the Sam Claflin marathon. I got up and took a shower. I then deep-cleaned my whole apartment.

I finally decided to write something. So, I set up my lamp and my record player. I may or may not have forgotten about my neighbor, Sam Claflin.

I started writing and then I heard three distinct knocks at the door. It's funny how I can tell it's his knocks already.

I opened the front door and smiled up at the tall gentleman in front of me. "Hello, Sam Claflin. Would you like for me to turn down the music again?"

"Yes, I- Did you google me?" He asked as I nodded proudly. "I did as a matter of fact. I also watched your whole discography."

"What? No, you didn't. That would have taken you a matter of days."

"I did actually. I'm a big loner with no friends and all I do is spend all day writing in my sad lonely apartment. If I don't go outside for weeks nobody is gonna notice," I said as he just stood there with his hands shoved in his pockets.

"Did you watch the Hunger Games?"

"Yes."

"Enola Holmes?"

"Yes, of course, my dear Mycroft," I said with a wink.

"Peaky Blinders?"

"Yes, love the stache by the way."

"Thanks. Did you-"

"Yes. I watched everything. Even the bad romance ones and the-"

"You don't like romance movies? What woman doesn't like romance movies?"

"Ones with brains. They are all the same. They all start the same and all end the same."

"Oh, you've had your heart shattered," He said as he crossed his arms.

"What? No. I've never even been in that sick puppy love before. I've only been in serious relationships with serious men. Not dumb pretty boy actors. Also, what's with you dying in all of your films? And do you only star in book renditions?"

"Did you just call me a pretty boy actor?"

"Is the only thing you heard me say?"

He just stood there and smiled at me. His cheesy British pretty boy actor smile. And I mistakenly smiled back.

"Would you like to have dinner with me?" He asked as I then crossed my arms to match his energy.

"Okay. But, I don't want to go out."

"Okay. We can eat at my place. I'll pick you up at-"

"I can walk next door by myself. You just have dinner ready by 8."

He nodded and then he walked away from the door. I shut it and went back to writing.

I wrote a couple of pages. Nothing much.

I then started to get ready around 7:30. I wasn't going to put much time or effort into this because I don't see it as a date. I see it as a get-together with my cute neighbor who just so happens to be Sam Claflin.

I walked over to his apartment around 8:15.

I knocked three times.

"You're late," He said as I rolled my eyes and walked into his apartment without any introduction.

"Well, I figured you already don't like me so what's the harm in being a few minutes late."

"How can I not like you when I don't even know your name?"

"(Y/N). There now you have every right not to like me."

"Okay, well, (Y/N). I hope you like chicken."

"What if I was a vegetarian? Would you have something else for me to eat?"

"Are you a vegetarian?"

"No."

"Then we won't have to worry about that now do we?"

I smiled at him and then sat down at the two-seater table in the middle of his dining room. His apartment was a little bigger than mine. I guess that comes with being a big-time Hollywood actor.

He had nice things. A big Tv. A big couch. Probably even had a big bed.

I'd be lying if I said I didn't still have my twin bed from my college apartment.

His plants are fake, though. This means that he likes the ambiance that plants create but he doesn't want the commitment of keeping them alive.

"What are you doing?"

"Scoping out your apartment. Seeing if I'm going to steal it from you or not," I said as he laughed and then sat down in front of me.

He poured us both glasses of wine.

"Is this a date?" I asked as he set the bottle down.

"Do you want it to be?"

"Well, I'm just curious because you asked me out before you even knew my name. So, you are either insane or incredibly horny and will most likely fuck anything that moves," I said matter-of-factly.

"Are you a musician?" He asked obviously trying to change the subject.

"No, why do you ask that?"

"The loud music."

"Those are just some of my favorite bands. They help me write when I can't think of anything."

"Ah, you're a writer. That makes sense," He said as I glared at him from across the table.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, you talk a lot and you seem to always be stuck in your own head. I've seen a lot of writers and they all have those tells."

"Okay, so you figured me out. My turn."

I studied him. I've watched all his movies. I know his Star Chart. I know what college he went to. I know when he first started acting. I know what his first movie was. I know who his first girlfriend was and I know to who he lost his virginity. He's another dumb male celebrity that has nothing secret or hidden from the media.

"I've got nothing," I said as I looked into his eyes.

Because that was the truth. I looked into this man's eyes and all I saw were these gorgeous green eyes that were just staring right back at me.

"Well, since you know everything about me do you mind if I ask you something?" He asked as he ate a piece of meat off his fork.

"Go ahead."

"Why did you watch all my movies?"

"Because I wanted to figure you out and I found it interesting that I live next to Sam Claflin the actor."

"Pretty boy actor" He added as if he were correcting me.

"Right. Pretty boy actor." I said as he turned a slight shade of pink.

"Are you usually home alone? Or do you live with someone?"

"Why? Do you want to kill me, Sam Claflin?"

"No. And why do you keep using my full name?"

"Because it's throwing you off."

"Yeah, it is."

We went on to talk about what I like to write. Which is mostly mystery and murder mystery. I stray far away from romance. It's sticky and all the same.

He learned my Star Chart. What college I went to. When I first started writing. The first novel I wrote. Who my first boyfriend was and to whom I lost my virginity.

"I hope to see you again, (Y/N) (L/N)," He said as he leaned against my door frame. (He insisted on walking me to my door)

"Well, if I ever want to see you again I know to just turn my music up too loud," I said as he smiled and then I turned around and shut the door.

I leaned against it and I swear this man stood in front of my closed door for a solid minute before walking away. I wonder if he was hoping I'd open it and let him in.

If we were going to have sex, though, I'd hope it'd be in his bed because mine can barely support my own weight.

[akwardlyuncool]

Class Favorites: Albums!

I guess all they had to do, to make album of the “year” was to let me see them in concert. It was more than that, obviously, but it did help their odds.

Note: In Defense Of My Own Happiness (Complete) came out in 2021, the other two came out in 2022.

_______________________________________________________________________

In Defense Of My Own Happiness (Complete) - Joy Oladokun

When I attended the Joy Oladokun North American Tour, the complete version was all that was available and it worked out cause I finally sat and listened to all the extra songs that I hadn’t previously, especially songs I only knew live. While making the concert blog post I had the whole album on loop, seemingly never getting tired of it. There’s just so much to love here and the more I can shout it and Joy out, I will take every opportunity to do just that. (Ask my coworkers.) The only thing that I had to get used to was the reordering of the songs, starting with “Jordan” and not ending with it took some adjustment.

She’s doing big things, so I’d get in on all of it now.

Top 4 Tracks (That I Didn’t Mention Last Year For The Original Version):

Brick By Brick (Track 13)

Bad Blood (Track 8)

Mercy ft. Tim Gent (Track 17)

Look Up (Track 23)

Sidelines - Wild Rivers

Wild Rivers has been so good to me these last few years with just singles, now it was time for them to be bumped up to album status. (I know they’ve had another album and few EP’s, I just haven’t spent a ton of time with them.) I listened to the album before and binged it a lot after seeing them live and it just got better and better. I loved hearing the stories behind many of my favorite songs as they played them live and recalling them as I played the album again at home. It’s an album full of stories intertwining love and heartbreak and I highly recommend at least checking it out.

Top 4 Tracks:

This was so hard! I don’t feel confident, but here you go.

Long Time (Track 3)

But for sure, listen to this one!

Safe Flight (Track 10)

Amsterdam (Track 5)

Bedrock (Track 2)

Never Had To Leave - Matt Maeson

With Matt Maeson being the talent that he is and how much I loved his previous album, I kinda figured that his follow up was gonna treat me well or that was the hope and long story short, I love this album! My friend and I have a shared playlist and every time Spotify would pop an album into my Release Radar I’d just drop it into our playlist. That was how I piece-mealed the album until I bought the CD at his concert. I’ve listened to it in full and in order plenty of times by now, the listen just started a little wonky. If you want to be alive and a little hurt, this is the album for you. (I think all 3 albums of the “year” give that feeling in some capacity.) He really gets in there and makes you want to sing along to the pain.

Top 4 Tracks That Aren’t “Cut Deep” Cause I Feel Like That’s The Easy Answer:

Blood Runs Red (Track 1)

Lonely As You (Track 4)

Nelsonwood Lane (Track 6)

Sanctified (Track 11)

[bigmouthlass]

Title:  Regarding The Road Ahead

Series: Holler Me Home, part 8

Author:  BJ

Fandom:  Supernatural

Rating:  Mature

Pairing:  Dean Winchester/You, Dean Winchester/Reader

Synopsis: When we last left Our Heroes, they'd just had a bad few days. And then crap happens, because when do these kids ever catch a damn break?

Tags:  Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, ABO, Omegaverse, AU, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Alpha Dean Winchester, Omega You, Omega Reader, Alpha Sam Winchester, Episode References, S12E11 Regarding Dean, Rowena McLeod, Memory Loss,

AN:  Part 6 (actually 8, the series was reordered later, whoops) of the Holler Me Home AU series; rewrite of S12E11, 'Regarding Dean.'  All recognizable intellectual properties are owned by their respective creators and holders of any copyrights or trademarks. This is a not-for-profit work of fan art and protected by Fair Use.

---

“How come you don’t grow your hair out?”

“Hmm?”  You look up from where you're sitting on Dean's bed rubbing a hand through the inch of growth on your head.  Watching him wash his face and lather up-- it's infuriating.  Nobody should look that hot before they've had coffee.

“You’re off the study drugs.  I don’t see any bald spots.  So why not grow it out?”

You shrug.  “Used to having it buzzed I guess.  ‘Sides, gimme a wig, some makeup, and twenty minutes I can look like anybody.  There’s a reason nobody remembers me when I blow through a town.”

“Okay, I see your point.”

You give Dean a look.  “Buuuuuut . . .”

He shrugs, peering into the mirror and holding his chin, drawing the razor down his cheek.  “I was just wondering.  I don’t even know what you look like with hair.”

Your eyes narrow.  “You mean, what I’d look like if I were normal.”

“I did not say that.”

“It’s implied.”

“Not.  Wasn’t even thinking that.”

“Why you lie, Winchester?  I hate it when you lie.”

“I’m not.  Fucking.  Lying,” Dean says, as he finishes with a delicate scrape of the cupid’s bow over his upper lip.  He turns to look at you, resplendent in his plaid jammie pants and no shirt, a towel draped over his shoulders, flecks of shaving cream here and there.  “Hell, gimme the clippers.  I know how to do a buzzcut.  Used to do it for Dad all the time.”

“Jesus, never mind,” you grouch.

“No wait a minute and listen to me,” Dean says, wiping his face and getting out the aftershave.  He points the neck of the bottle at you.  “I’m getting tired of you putting words in my mouth whenever I say something you don’t like.”

“That’s an illogical sentence Dean.”

“You know what I mean.”  He grimaces as he slaps on the aftershave, taps some over the scent glands in his neck.  “You think I give a shit about normal?  I’ve seen you knee-deep in ghoul guts.  I got the scar tour.  I know you still have your stuffed animals--”

“His name is Lambie,” you say, all affronted dignity, “and next to you he’s the great love of my life.”

“Whatever.  How many times do I have to tell you-- you don’t have anything to prove to me, I do not wish you were,” finger quotes, “’normal,’ and what I do wish is that you would trust me. A little.”

“Dean, you’re an Alpha, I’m an Omega.  Some things are just givens, all right?”

“Seriously?  You’re gonna go with that?”

“I’ve seen you checking out other girls Dean.  And I get it, okay?  You’re an Alpha, you can’t help it.”  You just about die of jealousy every time you see Dean’s eyes wander but that’s your problem, not his.

Dean sighs out a deeply unamused ‘ha!’  “You really don’t think I’m a better man than that?” he asks quietly.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Really?”  He looks up into your eyes.  To your shock he looks hurt.  Really hurt.  “Because it sounds a lot like, deep down, you’re still lumping me together with the knotheads that chased you into a broom closet when you were a kid.”

“Dean no.”  You get up off the bed and reach up to palm his cheek, but he turns his head away.  “I don’t think that.  I never could.”

“Then why?  Why are you constantly assuming the worst about me?”  Dean crosses his arms over his chest.  “Help me, baby please, I don’t get it.”

“Expecting you to behave like an Alpha isn’t constantly assuming the worst.”

“It is when you keep--” Dean cuts himself off.  “I mean-- you’re here, and it’s good, and I’m the happiest I’ve ever been in my life and you keep acting like you’re one foot out the door.  I’m trying.”

“Oh yeah, big sacrifice,” your mouth runs away from you, “the guy who could replace me by going to the nearest bar and snapping his fingers is trying.”

Dean’s eyes narrow.  “What exactly do you think Bonding means?”

“It means I spend the rest of my life tied to you, you idiot.  It means if I even think about another Alpha I get so sick I want to die.  Fuck in some states it means we’re de facto married and I can’t get a goddamned bank account in my own name.”

Dean doesn’t say anything.  He just studies you like he’s never even seen you before.  His hands go up to his head and interlock, the way they do when he . . .

You reflexively take note of the nearest weapons.  Dean only strikes that specific pose when he really, really wants to hit something.

“That’s all I could ever be to you isn’t it?” he says in that dead, artificially even tone.  “A limitation?  You really think-- did you just assume I wouldn’t want to Bond with you too?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.  Alphas don’t get Bonded.  Alphas have to be able to take another mate if their Omegas die in childbirth.  You know that.”

“Which I am very much aware doesn’t apply to us.”

“I don’t have ins with the King of Hell or the Heavenly Host.  Barring you being stupid you’re going to outlive me--”

“Don’t say that.”

“Why not?  It’s true.  I’m not quitting Hunting--”

“For fuck’s sake did I ask you to?”  Dean grabs a t-shirt and drags it on over his head.  “Know what I think?  I think maybe for the first time in your life you got somebody that needs you, and that terrifies you.  I think part of you’s trying to bail because you still can’t believe anybody’d want you around just because they want you around.  And I get it.  I do.  I’ve been patient.  I’ve tried not to take it personally.  I’ve been trying to give you the space you need to work out your shit.  I keep-- I keep waiting for you to figure it out, that you’re here because you belong here, and every fucking time I turn around you’re putting fucking words in my mouth assuming you know everything about what I think or how I feel.”  For just a second there, he looks so goddamned broken.  “If you don’t want to be here with me, just go.”

“I do not believe this,” you groan, grabbing your robe.  “We’re breaking up over a stupid fucking haircut?”

“Woah!” Sam yells as you run into him full-tilt coming up the hall.  He takes a good look at you, glances through Dean’s half-open door, sighs, and says, “I don’t want to know.  Get dressed and grab your stuff-- we got a case.” --- The ride is what one might call tense.  Like he does when he’s in a bad mood Dean goes for the Megadeth.  Which gives Sam a headache the big guy will not stop bitching about.  Dean keeps turning the music up until the shredding is hurting even your thrash-hungry ears.  You’re leaping out of the backseat the second Baby stops moving and making a mad dash for the cashier’s office.  The hell with cost-cutting, if you have to spend one more minute in an enclosed space with the Winchester brothers something bad will happen.

An attitude that rises to bite you in the ass with gigantic Irony fangs when Dean goes on a supper run and doesn’t come back.

“Look,” Sam says as you swear at Dean’s voicemail, “it’s not a big deal.  He-- he’s probably in a bar blowing off some steam.”  Which, you can see him realize the instant the words leave his mouth, was the absolute wrong thing to say.

“Of course he is,” you say.  “His little Omega’s not flashing her ass at him and an Alpha’s got needs.”

“Dean wouldn’t do that,” Sam tells you.

"It's hilarious," you say.  "You don't believe a word you're saying right now."

Sam looks at you for a long moment, and those are his Angry dimples.  “Start with the obvious-- he’s in love with you, even though all you’ve done is kick his ass.  For days.”

“I have not!”

Running through his mental grievance ledger -- it doesn’t shock you at all the boy considered a career in law before Hell irrevocably FUBAR’ed his life -- Sam said, “Yeah, you have.  You made a mail run right before that ice storm hit and ever since you got back you’ve been picking fights.  What happened? Bad news?”

Oh that.  “None of your business.  And not the fucking point.”

“Look all I’m saying is, you’re smarter than this."  You love Sam, you do.  But he's not without flaws and being so damn smart he assumes everybody else is a step behind is one of his least charming habits.  "Dean's been bending over backwards for you.  The least you could do is cut him some slack."

You shut your eyes and count to ten in Greek.  "Sam, you're my friend, and I respect you.  So I'm only gonna tell you this once.  Butt.  Out."

"Fine, fine fine," Sam drops as he goes for the door.  You hide a smile.  He makes it as far as halfway over the threshold of his own room before he stops, sighs, and says, "Very funny."

Never underestimate the power of being the oldest, you think as you brush by Sam and head for the liquor store up the block.  It's petty and it's stupid but you do feel a little better. --- You wake up with an assault-class headache and a message from Sam telling you to haul ass to the Waldo’s Waffles.  You arrive just in time to see Dean getting a from-the-shoulder full bodied slap in the face from an attractive brunette.

"Yep," you hear Dean say into the dead silence. " Epic night."

You will not make a scene.  You will not.  Even if it feels like someone cut a piece off your heart and stuffed it down your throat, you will not.

Dean turns and sees you.  His face lights up.  "Hi baby!"  He pulls you into a giant hug and takes a big sniff from your neck.  "God you smell better than waffles," he sighs into your ear.

Utter heartbreak gives way to utter confusion.  You stare over Dean's shoulder at Sam, who just shrugs helplessly.  In private with you Dean has his cuddlebug moments but in public he's careful about his personal space.  Nobody knows better how easy it is to slip a knife in between someone's ribs and make it look like a friendly hug.

You squirm out of his grip.  "Where the hell have you been?!?" you hiss, grabbing his arm and dragging him away from the dining room full of too-inquisitive eyes.

"No idea," he shrugs.  "Woke up in a field with a broken phone and a hangover."  His eyebrows draw together in puzzlement.  "And a rabbit.  Cute little fucker."

"All right," Sam calls the meeting back to order as you all pile into the car.  "What're we thinking-- third wheel, sister agency . . . ?"

"Haven't dusted off my Interpol credentials in a while," you say.  "The vic was an accountant and he had interests overseas-- anybody asks, I'm with the UN investigating money laundering."  You introduce yourself in Russian.

"You speak Russian?" Dean asks.

You call him something unflattering.  Without another word, Sam digs a bottle of Advil out of his pocket and passes it back to you. --- The weirdness continues.  When you emerge from your motel room in your Muscovite Bureaucrat costume -- jacket and trousers, tasteful silver jewelry, platinum blonde wig, eelskin laptop bag on your shoulder, scent neutralizer and perfume in place -- Dean's eyes pass straight over you like he doesn't even recognize you.  At the morgue, the normally easy as sneezing song and dance feels weird and out-of-joint.  When you pull out Evidence bags full of blood-drenched cash, Dean looks like he's about to say goodbye to breakfast.  Yesterday's breakfast.

"The report says all of this came out of the belly?" you ask, putting on a light Eastern European accent.

"Yeah," Sam confirms, eyes flicking over the pages of the file.  "Official COD is suffocation.  Have you ever seen anything like this before?"

"Not personally," you say, "though there are those whose sense of humor run in this direction."

"Gross," Dean says.

Pawing through the box, you find a tiny cloth sack in its own Baggie.  "Agents?"  You hold it up.

"All right.  Soooo . . . a witch force-feeds old Barry here a hex bag and then casts a spell,” Dean hypothesizes.

"Yeah, a spell that pumps him so full of cash he dies choking on it," Sam completes the thought.

This is one of the genuine pleasures of working with the boys.  When they're on the same wavelength, their individual brilliance and focus combines and jumps straight off the scale.  Except that's not happening.  Dean's brain's slipped a gear and he smiles a bit uneasily under the expectant looks from you and Sam.  "Well I guess it's true what they say," he says.  "Mo' money mo' problems, right?"  Still smiling like the moron you know he's not, Dean strolls out the door.

"God I hope you're still drunk," Sam mutters, holding the door for you on the way out.

"But why would anyone want Mr. Gilman dead?" you wonder out loud as the three of you reach the car.

"Yeah, what'd he do-- screw up somebody's tax return?" Dean asks.

"He's actually more of a money manager," Sam corrects.  "He's also active in local politics.  Maybe-- maybe he ruffled the wrong set of feathers somewhere?"

"Well whatever he was," Dean says, checking his pockets, "looks like he . . ." he frowns as he loses track of his sentence in the middle, "certainly made one hell of an . . ." the frown deepens.

"Enemy?" Sam completes the sentence.

"Enemy!  Yeah, that, those guys," Dean says as he digs out his keyring.

"Perhaps he made an unwise investment and someone decided to make a point of it?" you say.

"All right, well, let's check out his clients."  Eyes cloudy with confusion, Dean stares at his eyes like he doesn't even know what keys are.

Sam chuckles.  "Wow.  Man, you were serious about epic-- it's the square one."

"The one with the big GM on it?" you supply helpfully.

Instead of glaring at you like he should, Dean just shakes his head.  "Yeah I know," he says as he starts Baby up.  He clicks the shifter over and checks behind.

Three clicks.  Three.  "Dean you're in--"

Dean steps on the gas and Baby lurches forward into a bank of newspaper dispensers.  "Son of a bitch!"

Sam waves off the poor lady Dean almost took out with the news boxes.  "R for Reverse, Dean!"  When Dean doesn't answer, Sam snaps, "Dean?  Dean!"

"Oi!" you snap, slapping Dean one on the temple.  "Planet Earth to Dean!  Come in, Dean!"

Fear blooms under your heart as Dean turns blank, frightened eyes on Sam and on you.  "What?  Who's Dean?" --- "It wasn't just that," you say.  "You've been acting weird all morning.  Like above and beyond your normal standards of Weird."

"Well we know we're dealing with a witch, right?" Sam says.  "Maybe you got hexed."

"Dude, if a witch got a clear shot at me, I would be dead,” Dean points out. “Okay?  I wouldn't be freaking . . . uh . . . Dory!"

"Dory?"

Dean draws himself up a bit, squaring his shoulders.  "I'm not gonna apologize for loving that fish," he tells Sam.  "Not to you, not to anyone."

"Can I get that in writing next time you give me shit about Lambie?" you ask.

"What?"

"Never mind," you sigh.  "All right, um . . . Black Sabbath lineup after Ozzy split."

"Come on," Dean scoffs.  "Uh . . . Dio, Tony Iommi . . ." he trails off and there's that vacancy behind his eyes.  "Whatever.  This is stupid; I'm fine.  Okay?  I feel great!  Look . . ." he picks his pistol up from where he dropped it on his bed, "This is a gun."  He puts it back down and points at his jacket.  "This is a coat."  He points at the tube lamp on the nightstand.  "This is a . . . a . . . he gropes for the word and can't find it, "a . . . light stick."

"All right," Sam says, officially running up the flagpole.  "We're gonna get you some help."

"Look we can figure this out okay?" Dean protests as Sam grabs a pad of Post-Its from his ruck.  "Don't go calling Mom or Cas with this--"

"Fine," Sam says, scribbling on the Post-It and slapping it on the light, "but until you get better."

Dean reads the note.  "Lamp!  Right.  So close."

"Motherfucker," you say.

"It's definitely not that," Dean assures you. --- Retracing Dean's steps is, to put it in a single word, excruciating.  The morning's little slips have worsened into a freefalling slide, to the point where you're recalling unpleasant nursing home visits to your great-uncle as he died from wet brain syndrome.  Bad enough Dean cheated on you.  You have to tag along and reconstruct it.  It's like reviewing a tape of your own bowel surgery.

There's something else going on too.  As the gaps in Dean's memory widen, he's getting . . . handsy.  Polite personal space shrinks to nothing.  His arm keeps going around your waist like it belongs there, and he keeps tilting his head to scent you through the perfume you're wearing.  "Knock it off!" you snap at him as the three of you leave the second bar'n'grill on the list of places that offer carryout dinners.

"Sorry!" he says, his expression so full of hurt you might as well have punched him straight in the knot.

"Is anything ringing any bells?" Sam asks desperately at the next restaurant.

"Um . . ."

"Uht-oh," you say, spying a familiar face waiting tables.

"If you're gonna apologize," the attractive brunette from the waffle place says as she waits for the bartender to fill a drinks order, "you better make it quick."

"Me apologize?  Uh, you smacked me," Dean reminds her, as you stand at Sam's elbow grinding your teeth.

"You were being a dick-- we're even," she scoffs.

"Even for what?" Sam takes over.

"That's none of your--" her focus widens to take in you and Sam.  "Who are you?"

"Okay look," Dean tries again, tailing the waitress as she huffs away with a tray full of beers, "whatever happened, um, I'm sorry, okay?  See here's the deal.  We're . . ." it slides away from him again.

"We're FBI."  Sam pulls his fake ID and Dean follows his lead.  "Agents Moon and Entwhistle?"

The waitress, Janet by the nametag, finishes passing out the beers, her customer service smile vanishing the second her attention comes back to the boys.  "FBI?"  Glaring at Dean, she says, "Last night you said your name was Springsteen.  Like, 'The Boss.'"

You jab an elbow into Dean's ribs and ignore his pained yelp.  "Pardon me gentleman-- excuse me miss," you say in your disguise accent, gently taking Janet's elbow and pulling her aside a step or two.  You flash your fake Interpol ID and introduce your fake self.  "I apologize for taking you away from your duties but this is a rather . . . sensitive matter, yes?  Agent Moon claims he has no recollection of last evening and he has not been behaving like himself.  We are concerned he might have been drugged."

"Oh my God," Janet gasps.  Just like that, it's the girls saving the dumbasses from themselves.

"Could you please tell me what happened while he was here last night?" you ask.

"Um . . . he came in to pick up some burgers.  We were slammed so it was going to be a while.  He knocked back a few shots, called up some oldies on the jukebox, and hit the bull."

Confused, you say, "Kakiye?"

"Oh yeah," she points to where a portly dude in Dockers is busy falling off a mechanical bronco.  "He had the hots for Larry the second he walked in the door."

The boys are close enough they overhear that.  Sam's eyebrows climb halfway to his hairline.  "Was I good?" Dean asks with a goofy grin.

"You were . . . amazing," Janet sighs, and it's a genuine trial to keep from breaking her nose.  Her nose and Dean’s neck.  Wandering eyes, fine, you’ll cope.  A wandering dick?  Not in this fucking life or any other.

Something revealing must've shown despite your normally excellent poker face.  Janet's expression goes chagrined.  "Oh!  Um . . . I don't think anybody had a chance to salt his drinks but like I said, we were super busy.  I didn't have eyes on him every minute."

"Is the manager on duty from last night here right now?" Sam asks.

"Yeah, he's in his office," Janet points to a door marked Private.  But as you turn to follow the boys, Janet touches your arm.  "Hey, wait a second."  When Sam and Dean are out of earshot, she bends close to you and says, "Look, nothing happened.  When he got drunk he got flirty but when I got off-shift he turned me down flat.  That's why I lost my temper."  She hangs her head, "I mean, this morning--"

"As I said," you try your damnedest to keep your voice neutral, "he's not been acting like himself."  You hand over your fake business card with numb fingers, with the standard issue instructions to call if she can think of anything else.

Next thing you know you're outside, leaning against the Impala's trunk lid and shaking.  And feeling like the biggest asshole in the Western Hemisphere excepting politicians and Lakers fans.

"Woah hey."  You look up and Dean's cupping your cheek in one hand.  "Sweetheart what's the matter?"  The confusion's deepened but he's still got that tender look, the one that comes out sometimes when it's just the two of you.  You can remember being fish-grease hot pissed at him less than a day ago, but for the life of you you can't remember why.  You should maintain cover, gently re-establish respectful coworkers body language, but you can't make yourself do it right now.  You just can't. --- "So?" you ask as Sam and Dean get back from following Dean's trail into the copse of trees by the highway.

"Bad news.  We found the witch's body," Sam reports.

"Has Rowena called back?" you ask.

"No, but we did find this."  Sam's phone has a snapshot of a carving cut into a tree trunk, fresh done from the bright color of the cuts.

You page through the photos and stop at one of a body lying in some ivy.  "That dude-- he was in one of the pictures in Gilman's office."

A few minutes on the phone as Sam drives back to the motel and you have a name-- “Gary McIntyre,” you report.

“But?” Sam prompts.

“Since when do witches who pack this kind of punch use their actual names for things?”

“So he has a secret identity.  Like a supervillian,” Dean says, getting out of the car and draping his arm over your shoulders like it’s something he just does.

Oh God, you need a minute.  “Be right back, I gotta get out of these clothes.”

“Great idea!” Dean chirps with a huge grin.  Before you know it he’s got your top two buttons open.

“Okay, that’s enough, c’mon Dean, leave the nice Omega alone,” Sam coaxes, taking Dean by the wrist and dragging him away.

“Oh that’s why she smells so good,” you hear Dean say as you flee, and that corkscrew in your gut twists up another turn.

Off comes Muskovite Bureaucrat and you throw on your usual work clothes, scrub off your makeup and perfume.  But when you reach for the neutralizer, you pause.  Smells trigger memories more reliably than visuals; maybe it'll help center Dean if you just let it rip.  "Get it together," you tell your reflection, taking off your wig and wig cap, fluffing the sweat out of your hair.  "You're tougher than this."

The situation has not improved, you see the second Sam opens the door on the boys' room.  The place is wallpapered with Post-Its identifying each object in Sam's block capitals.  BED.  CHAIR.  TV.  TABLE.  It's like walking into the house of a firstgrader learning vocabulary.

In more than one way.  Dean's pacing the room, picking things up, looking at them quizzically, putting them back down again.  He opens Ashtear's Guide To The Infernal Realms, shudders at the illustration of the Sacrifice Of The Twins and drops the book like it bit him.  He looks up at you and his face does that lighting up thing.  "Hi."

"Hey."

Dean turns to Sam.  "Do we know her Sammy?"

"Yeah, Dean, we do," Sam explains patiently, shooting you a pitying look.  "She hunts with us."

"Awesome!  What's hunting?"  This after Sam spent the ride from the bar giving Dean the very abridged version of Full Disclosure.  If this is painful for you it's gotta be agony for Sam.  Dean snorts in a breath, and it’s weird-- part of his brain knows, and it’s crying out.  For you.

Someone knocks on the door.  Ignoring Sam's protests, Dean opens it on a petite redhead carrying a carpetbag and wearing too much makeup.  You recognize her immediately even though you've never met face-to-face-- the witch Rowena MacLeod.

"Who're you?" Dean asks.

Rowena's smile widens.  "Spell's progressed, I see," she notes in a lilting Scots brogue.  She steps daintily through the door, nodding at Dean as she passes.

"Rowena, I asked for intel, not a house call," Sam says, glaring down at her. Way down at her, she really is just a little bit of a thing.

"Oh, I have a feeling yew'll come to thank me," she says.  Fingers tipped with nails polished bright red touch the leylines of Dean's body-- below the hollow of his throat, from sternum to shoulder, down his right arm.

Dean gently touches a curl of Rowena's red mane. "Your hair. It's all so . . . bouncy."

She beams.  "Why, thank you!"  It takes a conscious effort on your part to keep your fangs up and your claws cased.  "Do we have to fix him?" Rowena asks Sam.

"Rowena--"

"Samuel," Rowena sighs.  She takes Dean's hand in both of hers, stroking down his palm, tracing over his wrist.

"Get your fucking hands off of him," you growl before you can stop yourself.

Rowena's eyes pop wide.  She looks from Dean to you and back again.  "Why this is new!  Samuel, ye didn't tell me yuir brother was courting a mate!"

"That's because it's really none of your business," Sam says.

"No, not my business," she agrees, "but a mating Bond dramatically alters one's energies, which can have a profound impact on spellwork."  She focuses her attention on you, in your ratty work clothes, no makeup, and buzzed hair.  "Hmm."

"Hey!" Dean snaps.  For a second he sounds completely like himself.  "Don't talk about her like that."

"All right, all right," Rowena coos.  "I apologize miss."

Never let it be said your mother didn't raise you with manners.  "Accepted.  It's been a long day and we're all a little snappy."

"That's completely understandable, my dear.  The glyphs you found are an archaic form of Celtic.  The Ogham Chraobh.  The Druids used it in their rituals, calling it the Language of the Trees."

That flash of himself buried under the fog, Dean says, "Wait, wait-- now the trees are talking?"

As Sam coaxes Dean to the bed and out of the way, you grab Sam's laptop and pull up the photos of the body in the forest.  "Here.  Do you know this guy?"

"Aye, I do," Rowena confirms.  "Gideon Loughlin."  She waits until Dean gets Sam situated in front of the TV watching cartoons.  "The Loughlins are the last surviving branch of a verra old Druidic lineage.  Their children -- Catrina, Boyd, and Gideon -- fled the Old World during the Great Famine and turned a small town in the Mississippi River Delta into their own personal fiefdom.  They brought their family's greatest treasure with them, a powerful spell book called the Black Grimoire.  Witches came from around the world to live with them and study its secrets, for a price."

"Can you put together a counterspell?" you ask, cutting to the chase.

"Oh of course I could," she says, and call you crazy but the sympathy sounds genuine.  "But witchcraft this complex would take time.  More time than Dean's got."  The three of you look over at Dean, as he snorts happy laughter at the antics of Scooby and the gang.  You can picture him as a little boy sitting crosslegged in front of a series if old TV sets, watching those same antics and laughing that same laugh.  There goes that corkscrew again.  "He's already begun to forget himself, everyone he's ever known, ever loved."  She turns pitying eyes on Sam. "Even you.  Soon he'll forget how to speak, how to swallow and then," she shakes her head, "Dean Winchester's going to die."

"Wow. Sucks for that guy," that guy says. --- "My name is Dean Winchester," you listen as Dean recites at himself in the bathroom mirror.  "Sam is my brother.  Um . . . Mary Winchester is my mom.  And Cast . . . Cas is my best friend.  And . . ." you clench your jaw.  Of course you’re the memory that goes first, and you try not to find a hidden meaning in that.  You really try.  "And I’ve got a girlfriend and her name is . . . dammit, her name is . . ."  You chance a look through the bathroom door, watch Dean steel himself and try again, "My name is Dean Win-- Dean Winchester."  Less confidence now.

Your resolve to be the silent strength in the room goes by the boards as tears trickle down his cheek.  "Hey, hey," you say, taking a hankie out of your pocket and wiping his face.  "Hey, it's okay.  We're gonna fix this."

Dean takes your hand and holds your wrist to his nose, inhaling deeply.  Some of the fear leaves his face.  "D-- do I know you?" he asks.  "I can't remember."

"You don't have to," you tell him.  "What do I smell like?"

"Safe," he says.  "Home.  Good things.  Things that go away."

Oh Jesus.  Every time you think you can't feel any lower, God digs the floor out from under you.

"My girl went away," Dean continues, "cuz she was mad at me.  That's how it goes.  People get mad at me, and they go away."

His own name is slipping away and he still remembers what it is to be left.  There goes another floor.  You're down with the aliens, sans flamethrower and pulse rifle.

"Maybe she wasn't mad," you say carefully.  "Not really."

"No no no no no, she was definitely mad.  Like, rip my knot off and stuff it up my ass mad.  I mean, I wasn't trying to make her mad."  His eyebrows draw together and he does that little half-nod.  "Not right then."

Aware that you're slamdancing in a field of live mines, you say, "Sometimes people get mad when they don't know what to say."

"I just . . ." Dean trails off, groping for the memory.  He shuts his eyes and takes another breath of your scent.  "She trusts me with her life but she doesn't trust me to treat her right?"

“Maybe she’s more scared of that than dying,” you admit.

“No way.  She’s not scared of anything,” Dean tells you like he’s stating the obvious-- Sam’s tall, Baby’s a Chevy, Zeppelin rules.

“Everybody gets scared sometimes.  Maybe it’s easier for her to get mad than be scared.”

Dean thinks that over, a thoughtful frown bringing out his eye crinkles.

“She must love you a lot,” you add.

“It doesn’t matter,” Dean tells the stranger in his arms.  “Even the people who say they love me go away.”

It’s official, you’re rooming with Judas, Brutus, and Cassius down in the Hell reserved for traitors.  You throw your arms around Dean’s neck and offer him your throat to scent.  “It’s me, Alpha,” you say into his ear.  “It’s me.  I’m here.  It’s me.”  Dean buries his face in your neck and you can feel warm air on your skin as he breathes you in.  He clings to you, like you're something solid, something that'll keep him from floating away.  All that strength, and he trusts you with it.

Sam touches your shoulder.  “Hey.  The accountant’s office gave us the Loughlins’ address.  Let’s go.”

“Absolutely not!” you snap, sniffling back a throatful of teary snot.

“You have to,” Sam says.  “I need backup and you're all I got."

“I am not leaving Dean alone with that woman!” you hiss.

“Standing right here,” that woman reminds the room.

“We can’t take Dean with us, and if the Loughlins are there they’ll recognize Rowena. And we have to go now.”

“He’s right lass,” Rowena says.  “At the rate the spell is progressing, Dean has perhaps a day before, well-- Do ye know what it is, to die of senility?”

“Yes,” you tell her flatly.  You turn your attention back to Dean.  The confusion is back, and deeper.  “I’ll be right back.  Sam and me are going to go fix this.”

“Fix what?  Did you break something?”

Yeah, and you’re going to get this done because Dean’s last thoughts of you before the curse erases you from his mind are not going to be how mad you got over a stupid fucking haircut.  “Never mind.”  You take his hand and wrap it around your hankie.  “Hang onto this.  It’s got my scent.”  Dean brings it to his face and sniffs.  You go up on toes and kiss him, hard and brief.  “We’ll be right back.  You just wait here.”

Gulping, Dean nods.  Big up-down, like a little kid.

“Okay.” Sam echoes your promise, swapping out a kiss for a hard hug.  “Come on let’s go.”  He looks over your head at Rowena, as she unpacks supplies from her carpetbag and lays them out on the table.  “Just so we’re clear.  If anything happens to Dean--”

“I am intimately familiar with yuir lunatic devotion to your brother’s safety, Samuel,” Rowena says dryly.

“Mágissa.  Tha se kápso,” you tell her, your tone and affect clear and devoid of all emotion.  “Sam can make do with the ashes.”

The amusement in the witch’s expression fades.  She nods, “Aye, I see it now.  Killer’s blood.  Like cries out for like.”

“As long as we understand each other.  Come on Sam.”  Sam falls in behind you on the way out.

“You know something?” Sam says, as he opens Baby’s trunk and loads a pistol with witch-killing bullets.  You get out a sawed-off and load it up with incendiary shells.  “You can be pretty scary sometimes.  Especially for an Omega.”

You slam Baby’s trunk shut so hard Sam almost loses fingers.  “Get this straight, Alpha,” you growl as your fangs drop.  “Omega does not equal weak.  Omega does not equal soft.  Omega does not equal submissive.  Omega does not equal fucking doormat.  Is that clear?”

Totally taken aback, Sam lowers his open hands.  “Yeah, okay, understood.  I apologize.  Look,” he pulls out his phone and opens a map.  “If the Loughlins made Dean, that means they know the car.  If we cut across country,” he looks up and around, waves across the road at some pastureland, “that way on foot, we can be there in . . . half-hour?”

“Say an hour.”  You finish hashing out a plan and take off, running away into the night. --- The Loughlins live in a stately home set back on a long private drive, surrounded by oak and cypress trees.  There's no fence but there are some private security guards walking a patrol.  Sam drops one with a sleeper hold.  The unconscious man goes in the shadow of an empty carriage house, a splash from your whiskey flask going down the front of his uniform blouse.

"Nice," Sam compliments.

You flash him a smile and follow him on catfeet to a tradesman's entrance tucked around back.  Sam pulls out his phone as you go to work on the door.

"You're in?" Rowena's voice comes softly through the speaker.  The lock on the door is strictly Mickey Mouse; it clicks open after about a minute of tumbler-tickling.

"Yeah we're in," Sam says, stowing the phone in his chest pocket and following you into an empty kitchen done in red tile and butcher block.  "All right.  As soon as I get the translation, you cast the spell."

"Shoosh now Dean!  Yuir brother and yuir Omega need us to be quiet like mice!"

"Right!" Dean whisper-yells in the background.

Covering the ground floor's the work of a few minutes.  Formal dining room, couple of guestrooms, a cozy den that smells strongly of cigars and pipesmoke.  There's a fire in every fireplace, driving off the minimal chill of the Arkansas winter.  Lot of house for only three adults, and so deserted it's making you nervous.

You follow Sam upstairs and through a set of open French doors.  Ah, here's the real heart of the household-- a library lined with built-in bookshelves floor to ceiling.  In the middle on a long wooden table lies a body, the witch Dean shot in the woods.  He's laid out for a ritual, smooth river stones over his eyes and down the pressure points of his body.

Over a worktable you and Sam see a slender blonde woman extracting a blue butterfly from a killing jar.  From the casual theatricality of her movements, you can tell you and Sam have been made.  Sam clicks the safety off his pistol.  "This gun is full of witch-killing bullets," he tells the woman, Catrina.

"And this," you work the slide on the shotgun, "is full of dragon's breath slugs.  Flammable rounds."

"Hmm," she hums absently, pinning her new specimen to a display board.

"So, why don't you go to your grimoire and tell me how to break that memory spell," Sam orders.

Catrina stands, dusting off her hands.  "Boyd wanted to go after you," she says, Ireland in her face and her voice, "but I said, 'Why bother?'  You're Hunters.  You'll hunt us down, right to our doorstep.  Hot and fresh, like pizza."

"He wasn't asking," you tell her, slowly sidling to the right.  A flicker of motion in your peripheral vision.  "SAM LOOK OUT--"

Sam whirls but not quite fast enough.  A wisp of energy flicks out from the interloper's fist and you and Sam go flying, smashing into a bookcase in a crunch of loose limbs.  It's a little like getting pitched into a brick wall, with another brick wall.

Catrina starts chanting a spell and your head fills with piercing white static screams.  The air is suddenly full of butterflies, except they're all stinging and cutting and you're yelling in pain as blood bursts from your nose.  Your last thought is you hope like hell Dean's too out of it to realize he's listening to you and Sam die. --- When you come to, you can smell traces of lavender. Some considerate soul took a second to clean the blood off your face.  That same soul also tied you to a chair, stripped you to the waist, and painted magic graffiti all over your chest, so you're not writing out any thank-you notes.  You stay slack against the ropes, keeping your ears open, taking soft sips of air for scent.  You can smell Sam's clean Alpha scent and the tea tree oil he uses on his hair.  He's alive, to produce that scent.

"Gideon's designation will override the host body's," a man's voice says, also touched with an Irish lilt.

"We don't know that for certain.  We've never tried to use an Alpha body," Catrina says.  You slit your eyes open but you're not facing the right way.  You can feel warmth near your bare back; they've got you and Sam tied in chairs back-to-back.

"I don't like it Cat."

"Boyd you promised," Catrina wheedles.  "Without Gideon, we are not a family."

"Well you should've thought of that before you went behind his back and pinata'ed the accountant," Boyd points out.  Your eyes roll, you can't help it.  Siblings are siblings, no matter the ages.  "Gideon told you to let it go."

"And let us be cheated by some sniveling, weak human nothing?" Catrina sneers.

"You got our brother killed," Boyd counters.

"And look at the opportunity the Fates dropped in our laps as a result!"  An icy hand lands on your head, shoving it to the side to bare your unmarked neck.  "A strong Alpha body, an unmated Omega!  They're not an ideal match but they're passable."  She pulls back, and you intuit what's coming a half-second before her hand cracks across your face.

"Woah!" you yell, snapping your eyes open.  "Just one of those DAYS, when you don’t wanna WAKE UP!  Everything is FUCKED!  Everybody SUCKS--" snarling, Catrina lets you have another, splitting your lip.

"Hunters," she sneers.  Her face seems to default to that expression.  "So arrogant.  Did you imagine we would tamely submit to the people who killed our family?"

"The guns with the magic bullets very strongly suggest we did not in fact expect that," you tell her dryly.

"When we're through here," Boyd says, doing something with Sam, "you really must tell us how you obtained poppy nectar from a faerie realm.  That's very clever."

"Wish I could say it was my idea," you admit.  "The incendiary rounds were all me though.  Stakes are so passé." You look down at yourself, up into the bare greed in the Irish witch's face.  "I'm flattered, but I'm straight.  I even got a boyfriend.  'Bout six-one, likes his steak rare, never shuts up?"

"You're an Omega.  Once you're in heat you'll lift your arse for anything with a knot, and heat," you jerk against the restraints as Catrina traces a finger down your sternum and the scribblings on your skin gleam magenta, "can be triggered with the right spell."

"Don't touch her," Sam orders, in an Alpha-voice so powerful you can feel it in your bones.

"Cat," Boyd warns softly.

"Boyd," she rolls her eyes back, "this is a gift . We haven't been able to work Bond-magic since the Hunters took Auntie Siobhan and Theodore.  We'll have our brother back.  We'll have our power back!  The family can rise again!  This is our future!"

"I will chew my own wrists open," you growl, all sense of humor gone, "before I let anyone mate me against my will."

"Och!  An Omega that thinks it's people!" Catrina mocks.  "Remember darlin, all an Omega needs is a cunt.  Arms and legs are optional."

Snarling, Sam jerks against the ropes holding him still.

"Please Boyd," Catrina simpers.  "For me?"

Their heads whip to look out the door at a sound from downstairs.  Muttering something under her breath, Catrina stalks out the door.

You suck in a breath.  "Oh God no," you whisper as you feel your blood smoldering under your skin, your heart rate climbing.  The blood painted on your body burns like acid, the glow intensifying.  Sam's Alpha scent crawls into your brain, with that something that reminds you of apples.  It's the common note he and Dean share, cool and tart instead of warm and sweet.  You wonder if that's how John Winchester smelled, back when he was just a dude back from the wars and falling in love.

"Don't do this," Sam begs as Boyd opens a box and takes out a knife with a black oak blade.

"What, swap your soul for his and watch him take the Omega Presenting right in front of him to mate?"  He slits his palm and uses a fingertip to paint a bloody glyph on Gideon's pale forehead.  "Catrina's right-- with a breeding Omega we can rebuild.  We can rule again, instead of hiding ourselves like cowards."

Out of Boyd's sightline you twist your wrist and unsheathe your claws.  Thank God, you can just reach the rope.  Grinding your teeth against the pain in your arm and the fire roasting under your skin, you scratch.  Just a little play, just a little.

Somewhere else in the house, you hear raised voices, Rowena's angry burr and Catrina's mocking lilt.  Glass shatters.  Sam grunts and you feel him straining the ropes and the chair.  The arrogant little shits forgot-- wooden furniture in a humid climate degrades over time.

"Sounds like a couple alley cats fighting downstairs," you manage.

"Don't you worry my lovely," Boyd assures you, finishing with his brother's body.  "Our Cat has it handled."  He chuckles as you gasp.  Slick's weeping out of your pussy, soaking into your underwear.  Worse, you know Sam's smelling it.  Sam's reacting to it, his Alpha scent getting stronger, more intense.  "Be easy, shh."  A greasy smile creases Boyd's broad face.  "A few minutes more and Gideon will make you feel ever so much better."

The wood under Sam's right arm cracks apart and he drives his fist straight into Boyd's nose.  Yelling through his fingers, the Irish witch staggers out to the hallway.  The rope under your claw snaps and you work your arm free, as the chair holding Sam breaks around him and he yanks the scrap and rope off.  He's shirtless too, red-faced, and his pupils are blown wide open.  From his parted lips you can see the points of fangs.

"GO!" you snap, using your free hand to cut the rest of the ropes around you.  Sam whirls and sprints after Boyd.

As you try to stand your vision tunnels and your knees buckle.  Your brain turns into a ViewMaster and your awareness flicks, unstuck in time.  Floor polish and huge hands smashing against your panties.  Dean's fingers stroking you inside and out.  Things forcing and probing, things made slippery with blood and with slick.  Being with Dean, who's brought you nothing but pleasure, makes you feel treasured and cherished, makes you feel like someone who matters-- easy to forget how much your unfulfilled heats hurt.

A shot rings out and a body drops.  Awareness takes another slip-slide and you curl into the tightest ball you can, wrapped around your traitor Omega womb and yelling in pain.

Warmth wrapping around you and you're surrounded by scent.  The right scent, smoky and sweet.  You bury your face in the offered neck.  A soft purr rumbles against you.  Alpha's here, and he'll make it okay.

"Let me see," a woman's voice orders and the arms around you tighten, the purr turning to a growling snarl.  Something cold touches your forehead and just like that the heat is gone.  The fog blows off your brain and your eyes blink open.  You're in Dean's arms.  He's glaring up at Sam and growling, low and threatening, his fangs bared.

Rowena touches the back of her hand to your forehead.  "Burning up. Find a loo and fill a tub, her fever's got to come down."

"Right."  Sam snags his shirt from a pile of wreckage and takes off.  Rowena coaxes Dean to pick you up in a bridal carry.

The cold water finishes the job of bringing you back to Now.  You're in a bathtub with Sam using a handheld sprayer on your head.  Cold water pours from the faucet and in no time you're up to your ribcage in cool.

"There there," Rowena says, laying a soothing hand on the back of your neck.  Behind her Dean fidgets, pale as cream and his lips working around words that won't come.  "Is everyone all right now?"

"Yeah," you pant, taking the sprayer away from Sam and turning the faucet off.  You stare down at yourself, soaking wet and your tits bare to the breeze.  Blushing miserably, you cover yourself.

With an amused little smirk you yearn to smack off her face, Rowena stands.  "There now, that's sorted.  Come along now."  She takes Dean's hand, but he won't move.  His eyes are locked on you, vacant as an empty room.

Hoping like hell Alpha instinct will take over where awareness is failing, you nod at him.  "I’m all right Alpha.  Go."

"Yeah, it's okay," Sam says, and that gets through.  Docile as a cow, Dean follows Rowena back to the library.

Without turning to look at you, Sam clears his throat.  "Look, I-- I--"

"Get me a towel and wait outside.  Please."

Fast and hard, you scrub yourself raw.  As you dry off what you can, you can hear low conversation.  Please God let it not be too late.  Dean’s mind has to come back.  It has to.  You have to tell him you’re sorry.  A craven part of you says that’s not enough, you’ve sinned and must beg for Alpha’s forgiveness, if you remembered your place none of this would be happening, Alpha was ready to sink fang into his own brother because of your weakness--

You wrap and tuck the towel around your chest and slosh down the hall.  Sam meets you at the stairs and hands you your shirt.

“Well?” you ask, buttoning up as Sam heads downstairs.

"We found the reversal spell. Rowena’s working it now.”  Sam won’t even look at you.  Dean isn’t the only Alpha you should beg for forgiveness, you realize.  The one situation you’d sworn to never allow, because it’s one you know you will never win-- asking Dean Winchester to choose anybody or anything over Sam.

“Sam I--"  You take your courage in hand and swing the knife, “Alpha I’m sorry. I am so sorry.”

“What?  Why?  You didn’t do anything wrong,” he says.

“Dean was ready to kill you . Because of me.”

“You think this is the first time Dean’s shown fangs at me because of a spell?” Sam asks.  “I lost count after six.”

“He only saw you as a threat because I was enticing you--"

“That's ridiculous,” Sam cuts you off.  “He saw me as a threat because his Omega was in distress and everything was a threat.  And-- and you weren’t enticing anything.”

“So that was a pistol in your pocket?”

Sam's eyes fall away from yours.

“That’s what I thought.”

His eyes come back up.  “I’m not defined by my designation any more than you are,” Sam says, going quiet the way he does when he gets really and truly angry, “and just because I had a hardon doesn’t mean I was ready to commit rape.  Nothing that happened up there was your fault.  In any way.”

“Yes Alpha,” you say meekly, and loathe yourself.

“I mean it.  You don’t have anything to be ashamed of.”  Sam pauses, and you can see him noticing how he’s gone from standing to looming.  You can feel your posture weakening, and you’re very aware that you’re unarmed and Sam’s between you and a way out.  Shifting his weight back and letting his shoulders drop a bit, Sam says, “And please don’t call me Alpha.  I’m not your Alpha, and I have a name.”

From upstairs Rowena’s voice rises and there’s a brilliant flash of magenta light.  You and Sam draw together and wait, barely daring to breathe.

Rowena appears, a great book bound in black clutched to her chest.  Dean follows and your heart sticks in your throat.

“Wha-- wait-- is it done?” Sam stutters.

“Who’s this hippie?” Dean asks, and your mouth drops open.  Rowena and Dean reach the ground where you and Sam are standing . . . and Dean’s blank face splits in the most infuriatingly beautiful asshole smile you’ve ever seen in your life.  “You should see your face!  Like that time I ate all your Halloween candy-- remember that?” --- “You didn’t have to punch me,” Dean whines through your hankie, as Sam parks back at the motel.

“’Twas perhaps a bad time to be jesting, all things considered,” Rowena comments.  “Now if ye’ll be so kind as to call me a taxi I’ll be on my way.”

“Sure.”  Sam pauses, twisting around in his seat.  “Um . . . thank you.  For coming to help.”

“Don’t hurt yourself Samuel,” Rowena scoffs.  She looks at you.  “I wonder if I might have a word with ye in private lass?”

“Sure.  I gotta change anyway.”  And have whatever you’re supposed to call a temper tantrum after you’re too old to call them temper tantrums.

Rowena’s seated at the room’s little café table when you come out of the bathroom, dressed in some dry jeans and feeling marginally more human.  “What did you need to talk to me about?” you ask, dumping your damp pants in the dirty clothes bag.

“I’m curious,” Rowena says, watching you pack your duffel.  “Why aren’t ye and Dean properly Bonded?”

“None of your business,” you say without looking up.

“As you will,” Rowena shrugs.  “Ye should know, your pairing is a true one.”

“There’s no such thing as true mates,” you refute.  “Some people are just more compatible than others.”

“Accourse there is.  The modern world rejects the notion, because a true pairing is as much about soul as it is about the body.  To someone with the witch-sight, it’s plain as the nose on yuir face.”

You yank the zipper on your duffel shut and turn to face down the witch, your hands on your hips.  “No.  If I’m with Dean, it’s because I choose it.  Me.  Not God, not the Fates, not Mother-fucking-Nature.  Me.”

“Something else is plain to anyone with eyes,” Rowena says.  You wish she’d knock it off with the wise auntie shit, it clashes with the pitiless amusement in her eyes.  “If ye weren’t Alpha and Omega, Dean would choose ye still.  When he talked about upsetting ye he looked as though his heart had died.

“Accept it or reject it, that is yuir choice m’dear. But you need to make a decision.  Soon.  The Bond between ye yearns for completion.”

“And if I decide I don’t want it?  Or Dean doesn’t?” you ask through numb lips.

“Then ye need to find a witch well-versed in Bond magic.  I’m Beta, that realm is closed to me.  A true Bond is magical in nature and requires an experienced touch to break safely.”

Your eyes narrow.  “Why are you telling me this?  It’s not out of the goodness of your heart.”

“Tsk.”  Rowena thinks a minute.  She looks tired, you think, tired in a way makeup doesn’t cover.  And old.  “D’ye know the secret to living across multiple lifetimes, lassie?”  You shake your head.  “Wise investments.  Being a Winchester ally has its drawbacks.  Being their enemy, well-- ask Lilith about that. Or Lucifer.”

You tip your chin in a thoughtful nod.  Put that way, you see her point.

“Did the boys ever tell ye what happened with God and his sister Amara?” Rowena asks.

“No,” you say.  You remember the day, the day the sun drained and filled back again.  You know Sam and Dean had been front and center to stop it, but not the details.  Dean had been uncharacteristically vague when you’d asked.  Normally his after-action reporting’s efficient and thorough.

“The Darkness, triumphant, secure in her victory over God her brother.  I was there holding the Almighty’s hand as he lay dying.  We’d unleashed all the power of a desperate world-- of Heaven, Hell, magic, and God Himself; it made not a whit of difference.  Her rage made all that power meaningless.

“We hit upon a plan.  Perhaps if both the incarnations of Light and of Darkness perished, existence would continue and life itself might be spared.  I created a bomb.”

“And guess who volunteered to be the trigger man,” you say, horrified.

“Aye,  Dean was the only one who could get close.  Amara had taken a special liking to him, ken.”

You laugh, without joy.  “Of course she did.”

“When the sun began to brighten, we all knew he’d won.  But that bomb never went off.”  A hint of frustration creeps into her tone.  “Somehow, that vulgar, drunken, brutish lout of a man succeeded, where all the power in the world failed.  How?”

The answer’s plain obvious to you.  “Cuz he’s Dean.”

"Aye, he is.”  Rowena leans forward in her chair.  "A man whom it would be wise to have in one's debt.  I’m a survivor, lass, a creature who has known winter and remembers it.  You are too, for ye to have survived this long without kin or mate.  Dean’s a good man in spite of himself and he loves ye.  I should think verra hard before deciding he’s not as important to ye as yuir pride." --- The tiny bump at the end of the drive into the bunker’s garage wakes you up.  Dean wheels Baby into her usual space front’n’center and kills the engine.  The three of you just sit a minute, lingering on empty.

“Well,” Sam breaks the silence, “that happened.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees.  “Epic.”  He twists and looks back at you as you stretch the blood back into your muscles.  “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you grunt, as you haul yourself out of the car.  In between tiny naps stretched over Baby’s backseat, you’ve been racking your brain over what to say.  You know Dean.  You know if you don’t say anything neither will he.  It’ll all be just another nightmare.

She’s not scared of anything, Dean had said to you, so full of respect.

Courage is not the absence of fear, and God, you wish you didn’t hear that in dad’s voice.

You stop at the door to your room.  Dean passes you by, not looking at you.

“Dean?”

“Look, I just want to go to bed and sleep for a week,” Dean says.

“Please.  We need to talk.”

“Sam told me what happened.  It wasn’t your fault.  You were hexed.  Okay?  Good talk.”

He turns to go and you stop him with a hand on his arm.  “Please.  Ten minutes.”

Dean fights with himself, but eventually he nods and follows you into your room.  “Like I said--”

“I’m sorry,” you cut him off.  “About that stupid fight we had before we left.”

“What fight?  Oh right-- the one where you basically called me a knothead asshole to my face.  Apology accepted.  Can I go now?”

“I’m not done,” you tell him.  You will not rise to the bait.  You will not.

“There’s more?  How ‘bout explaining to me why you thought I went out and hooked up that night.”

“You told Rowena you didn’t remember anything!”

“I lied.  I mean-- seriously?  I’m not a saint but you don’t even trust me that much?”

You’re an Alpha.  What was I supposed to think when you went out and never came back? trembles behind your lips.

“Holy shit,” Dean says when you don’t answer, sagging to lean against your desk.  “I don’t believe this.  I spent the night in a field with a dead witch and you thought-- screw this.”  He stands straight, aimed at the door.

“You’re right,” you choke out through your tight throat.  “Christ Dean, I’m so fucking sorry.  You’re right, you didn’t deserve that.  I know better.  That wasn’t fair to you.”  You hang your head.  It’s happening, here comes the crybaby face.  You hide behind your hands and try sucking back your tears.  You’re a fucking adult, you should be able to take what you got coming with a little bit of goddamned dignity, you only cry big fat tears to get out of paying for your mistakes like a manipulative little bitchslut.

Making soft shushing noises, Dean holds you and presses your head to his chest.  Something hot and pulsing inside you, something infected and rotting, bursts open and starts to drain.  All the bottled strain of the last couple days, watching Dean disappear in front of you, watching your complex, angry, tender Alpha fade . . . and more, and further.  “I’m sorry,” you sob over and over, tangled and lost in shame.

Using your hankie, Dean gently cleans your face.  He presses the fabric to your nose.  “Blow.”

You take it from him and finish pulling yourself together.

“That better?” Dean asks.  As you nod, he pulls you close and kisses your forehead.  You could leave it at that.  You want to leave it at that.

You scent Dean, letting him fill your world.  “There’s something else.  I know-- I know I’ve been acting like a hormonal bitch on wheels,” a muscle in his jaw twitches, “and I owe you an apology for that.  I’m sorry, it was totally uncalled for.”

“It wasn’t like you didn’t have a reason to get pissed at me about that.  But I thought we had that handled.”  Oh right, the storage unit in Kansas City after the thing in Colorado.  Handcuffed angry sex.  It wasn’t as much fun as it sounds in your head.

“That’s not why.”  You push him to sit on the bed and get a battered accordion folder out of your locked desk drawer.

"First of all,” you pull up your desk chair, “let me be clear.  This is not an excuse.  It’s an explanation.”

“Ten-four,” Dean says. He undoes the string closure on the folder.  The first pocket is full of envelopes.  Maybe thirty or so in all, plain white, business sized, sealed, made out in your lopsided Palmer Method cursive.  Across the front of each one, RETURN TO SENDER has been printed in screaming red Sharpie.  “What’re these?”

“Letters to my father.  I write one twice a year, just before Christmas and his birthday in June.”

Shock stretches his features as he leafs through the envelopes.  “And he’s never opened them?”

“No.”

Opening another fold in the folder, Dean takes out an 5x7 photo, a couple on a couch with their arms full of children, two more little girls sitting on the floor at their feet.  “Lucky Seven,” you say.  “There’s me sitting in front of dad, that’s Mandy, dad’s holding The Jays -- Janey and Jenny -- and Mom’s holding Rosie.  She was . . . maybe two or three months old?  My godfather Patrick’s manning the camera.”  You pick out another picture, an older you standing in between dad and Pat, the three of you holding up a respectable size walleye.

With the reverence it deserves, Dean slips the photo back in the folder.  As he does, he finds a pack of snapshots amongst the jumble and does a double-take at a picture of himself, sitting astride your bike, Eddie.

“Remember when we were working in the garage and Sam started horsing around with my camera?”

“Yeah yeah.”  Dean shuffles through the snapshots-- each of the boys posed mounted up on Eddie, you holding Sam in a headlock, Dean singing into a socket wrench, the soles of yours and Dean’s boots as you work side-by-side laying on creepers under Baby.  He pauses on one.  You’re on Eddie, Dean’s pressed up behind you with his chin on your shoulder, both of you peering down at Eddie’s instruments with identical looks of absorbed concentration.  “I like this one.”

“Yeah?  I do too.”  The angle emphasizes the clean lines of Dean’s face, his body.  You look like you belong there, in his arms.  “That’s why I enclosed it in the letters I wrote to my sisters.  And dad.”

Dean’s head snaps up as he puts it together.  “You told your family about me?”

“Yeah.  Relax, I didn’t tell them your full name or that we’re headquartered in Kansas.”

“Wasn’t even thinking about that,” Dean says absently.  “I mean . . . you told your family.  About me.  That . . . that kind of makes me think you think we’re serious.”

The Bond between ye yearns for completion.  “We’re talking about mating.  Hell yeah I think we’re serious.”

“You gonna,” Dean’s doing that thing he does when something’s blindsided him, searching for a pushback, a wisecrack, something, anything to get some distance, “take me home, show me off?”

“I wish.  Rosie says if she wasn’t engaged she’d, and I quote, ‘tie you to the nearest bed and ruin you for any other woman.’”  From another fold, you take out the last letter you got from Janey.  “Kaylee, Janey’s oldest, sent you this.  She’s going through a flirty phase.”

Dean takes the little pink Valentine, handling it like it’s glass that might break and cut him bloody.  “I’m getting love letters from six-year-olds,” he mutters, going for gruff and missing.

“Seven.  Kay’s a very sophisticated young lady.”

“Not funny.  I didn’t think you even talked to your folks.”

“Mostly I don’t.  They think I work in skip tracing, so I can’t give them a phone number.  I write them when I can, they write back.  The university keeps a mailbox for me at the clinic in Columbus, I swing by there when I'm in the area.  I get to keep up with my sisters and they get to know I’m not dead.”  You can’t keep the brittle, bitter snap out of your voice.  Half a dozen letters a year, a little pile of photographs, and that’s as close to Lucky Seven as you’ll ever get.

“But you dad never reads the ones you send him,” Dean says.

“Ever since Peg took me on the road with her,” you say, “I’ve only ever heard from dad twice.  Just twice.  The first time is when he sent me a newspaper clipping of Mom’s obituary.”

“What?”

You shut your eyes.  If you’re not careful you’re gonna start bawling again.  “I was in the hospital with a cracked sternum and a fractured skull.  By the time I got to the mailbox she’d been dead almost a month.  Mandy hasn’t spoken to me since.”  You wipe your face.  “There’s a statue of Michael the Archangel over her grave.  Ain’t it funny how life works.”

“Hilarious.”  Dean stands up and you snatch at his arm.  “Easy baby,” he says, bending over to give you a kiss.  “Do you still have that bottle of vodka?  I need a drink.”

“In the closet.”  A gift from a grateful Mongolian artist for unbinding and banishing an oni from his studio.  You mentally wave it goodbye as Dean finds your sipping glasses and pours.  He’s right though, the liquor does help.

“The last time I swung by the box,” you hand him an envelope slit up one side.  Dean tips out a copy of that picture of you two on your bike and a folded piece of paper.  “I found this.”

Dean unfolds the paper and reads what’s there.  The note crumples as he clenches his fist.  “Fuck that shit.  I meet this guy, I’m gonna deconstruct him.”

“Don’t.”  It’s too much effort to be mad right now.  “I thought-- fuck, I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Dean throws the note somewhere away, like a guy who’d just realized he’s holding a dead rat.  “Baby why didn’t you just tell me what the matter was?”

“You had other shit going on.”

“We always have other shit going on.”

“I mean above and beyond the usual.  This was just after the Lily Sunder thing and the thing with Dr. Jon.  My father being himself doesn’t even rate.”

“It does to me.  Especially if it means getting my ass kicked around the bunker like I’m a damn football.”

“Was I really that awful?”

“Pretty bad . Next time just talk to me, okay?  I don’t ever want to have to do that again.”

“That goes both ways, you know,” you say.

“Hey,” Dean says.  “We’re not talking about me here.”

“I’m not,” you take a breath, “trying to deflect or pick another fight here.  Just . . . I feel like sometimes you forget I’m not a mindreader.  Or Sam.”

“Okay, can we agree we’re both morons and call it a day?  I mean it sweetheart, I’m fried.”

“Serve us with dippin sauce,” you agree, setting the folder aside, “we’re done.  Could . . .” you hesitate.  It’s hard to tell, when Dean isolates himself out of habit and when he does because he genuinely needs some space.  “Could you sleep in with me tonight?”  At Dean’s ‘huh?’ look, you add, “Look I totally get it if you just wanna watch some TV or call your mom or you just need some Me Time and I’m not talking about sex or whatever--"

The rest gets lost as Dean kisses you.  Soft, deep, thorough, and healing.  “Lemme go change.”

As he stands he knocks Lambie over and the stuffed sheep clunks to the floor.

Making a confused noise, Dean picks Lambie up and squishes.  He looks like a gorilla poking at an enrichment device.  He finds it, a steel-hard lump in Lambie’s soft belly.  “What the hell . . . ?”

Giggling, you take Lambie, tear open the velcro closure in his belly seam, and dig out a Beretta Pico pocket pistol.  “It okay, we can get some sleep.  Lambie’s got our backs.”

Dean takes the little pistol. He could almost palm it like a playing card in those big hands.  He looks down at the stuffed sheep.  “I take back everything bad I ever said about you, Lambie," he says solemnly.  "You’re a badass.” --- Some hours of solid sleep and you feel like yourself again.

"Hey," Dean says, looking over his shoulder.  You're playing jetpack, squashed up against his back and brushing kisses over the back of his neck.  "Um . . ." he stretches against you, "just so we're clear . . ." he sighs as you nibble at his earlobe, "you’re coming on to me, right?"

"Mmm-hmm," you hum, hiking up his shirt and caressing his warm tummy.

"Oh, good," he says.  Before you know it you're on your back, Dean pinning you to the mattress and giving you a smile that makes you throb, slick pooling in between your legs.  His hips roll and you suck in a breath as he rubs you, just right.  "Good." --- Later, you wake up with Dean sitting on the edge of the bed, talking on the phone.

"Yeah . . . yeah, where do you want to meet?  Sure, that's that trucker's joint outside Junction City . . . Totally doable.  Anything specific you want us to bring?"  He chuckles.  "Never leave home without it.  Right.  See you there . . . I love you.  Bye."

"Don't tell me," you groan.

"That was Mom, and she needs help on a case," Dean confirms.

"You told me."  Swinging up out of bed, you ask, "What's the caper?"

"Demon hunt.  Wally Prescott has a line on one outside Junction City.  One that likes to snack on virgins."

"Why is it always fucking virgins?" you grouch.  "Why can it never be child molesters or Spurs fans?"

"What is it with you and the Spurs?" Dean asks.

"They suck, and Gregg Popovich is evil.  Case closed."

"Yeah yeah yeah--" he drags your desk chair out and points.  "Front and center."

"What?"

Digging in your closet, Dean pulls out a plastic case.  Unsnapping the catches, he pulls out your clippers.  "What guard do you usually use?"

"Dean you don't have to--"

"I told you," he says,  "I know how to do a buzz.  Sit."

You expect a basic training shavedown, but that's not what happens at all.  Dean snaps a number-two guard on the clippers and, gently feeling ahead for bumps or moles, sweeps front-to-back, starting with the center line.  "Feel like we should be talking about makeup or something," he mutters.

"Makeup sucks.  Good talk," you say.  "For real now-- you really don't care if I keep it buzzed?"

"Nope."  Dean sets the clippers down.  "I like how I can hold your head, like this," he cups his hand right where the skull flares out into the braincase, just above the nape of your neck.  "Feel that?  It fits, right in my hand."

You close your eyes and relax, letting Dean take the weight of your head.  "Yeah."

"I keep finding that," Dean says.  "Little parts that just fit.  Like that picture.  You know your legs are about as long as mine are?  We could probably trade pants."

"Nuht-uh," you say, "I have this thing called an ass."

"According to you, so do I."

"Just because you are an ass," you smirk at him, "doesn't mean you have an ass."

"Oh very funny," he grumbles.

"It was there, I had to go with it."

He picks the clippers back up and goes to work on the hard-to-reach spots around your ears.  "Hold still, I don't want to nick you."

“Did you mean it?” you ask, remembering what he’d said in the bathroom.  “About what you think when you have my scent?”

“Yeah.  I mean--” Dean tips your head to the side, “you and Sam.  When I could scent you I-- I felt like me, even when I couldn’t remember who I was.”  Using a damp washcloth, Dean tidies the stray hairs off your head.  “What do you think when you’re scenting me?”

“I . . . I don’t know, I never sat down and thought about it I guess . Does painfully fucking horny count?”

“Hell yes,” Dean says, taking the towel off your shoulders and brushing you off.

You pass your hand over the peachfuzz as you examine Dean’s handiwork in the mirror.  “Pretty good.”

“Pretty good?  I could do this for a living.”  Dean takes a place in front of the mirror and opens up his shaving kit.

You take his razor away from him.  "Sit down.  I'll do it."

It's funny.  Over the last few months, you and Dean have been intimate in pretty much every way possible for two distinct human beings to be intimate.  This is something special though.  Using a couple of washcloths for hot towels, feeling him relax as you gently scrub a cloth over the stubbly bits.  It has to be a very vulnerable feeling, somebody coming at your face with a sharp blade.  You work a squirt of gel into a handful of foam and Dean tips his head back as you lather him up . Carefully you draw the razor down his cheek, along his jawline, working around the little scar on his chin.  You can see the faint ghosts of freckles across his nose, a nod to the Irish in his blood.  His heart's beating so hard the skin pulses, forcing you to go slow and careful.  Free of whiskers Dean's skin is silky under your fingers, almost as soft as the skin inside his elbows or behind his knees.

"You got this from the Mary Kay lady didn't you?" you tease, finding a little bottle of beard oil in his shaving kit.

"I like the smell," he says a little defensively, as you warm a tiny dollop between your hands and massage it into his face.

"All done," you chirp.

Like someone waking from a nap, Dean straightens up in the chair.  He strokes an assessing hand over his face, making a pleased noise.  "Pretty good.  Where'd you learn to do that?"

"My godfather Pat.  He was staying over with us while Mom and dad were out of town for a couple weeks.  He burned the hell out of his right hand cooking and asked me to do it.  He said he'd grow a beard but he couldn't stand the way it made his face itch."

"Um . . ." Dean swallows.  "You didn't-- um, you-- did he--?"

You look down at his lap.  "Oh.  Um . . . no, he was a perfect gentleman.  Seriously, shaving turns you on?"

"Everything about you turns me on," Dean tells you, moving in for a kiss.  Your eyes drift closed and you're doing the mental math on the drive time to Junction City and how badly do you really need to have breakfast--

"Morning!" Sam's back from his morning run.  He raps on the door.  "Got your text.  Let me get a shower and we can hit the road."

"Fuck," Dean whispers.  "All right, meet you at the car in thirty!"

"Right."  Sam moves off. --- Exactly thirty-six minutes later, you and Dean jog into the garage and find Sam waiting, leaned up against the car and tapping his foot.  "Seriously you two?"

"Shut up," you tell him.  Just to be a jerk, you pull out your phone and call up Cage the Elephant.  Dean slides behind Baby's wheel and Baby's engine roars as you pick up the chorus.

"You know there ain't no rest for the wicked, until we close our eyes for good."

---

AN2: Russian: "What?" Greek: "Witch. I will burn you." 'Bond Magic' is a headcanon thing-- yeah, a headcanon of a headcanon. It makes sense to me certain magics can only be manipulated by people of certain Dynamics, no matter how massive one's talent or which demons one bribes. Also headcanon is that cultural habit says Omegas must be claimed but not Alphas; part of that privilege/marginalization thing I mentioned earlier. We're maturing here, folks! Maturing!

[jackoshadows]

@nymerias-heart suggested a while back that we do some TWoW speculation while waiting for the next book.

So I was wondering if ASoIaF readers on here could reblog the character list below with the chapter count they think each character would get in The Winds of Winter. Would be really interesting to see this. If we have enough data we could do some statistics.

ADwD was already a big book with 16 POVs and 73 chapters. Jon had the maximum with 13 and several characters had 1 or 2 chapters.  In TWoW, GRRM has to fit in 20 POV characters and cover a lot of ground and story. And we only have two books left to finish the story.

The list is below. Just enter the number of chapters next to character names. You can also enter 0, if you don’t think the character will have a POV chapter.

I’ll go first.

Aeron Greyjoy... 3

Areo Hotah ...2

Arianne Martell ... 3

Arya Stark ...8

Asha Greyjoy ...3

Barristan Selmy ...4

Bran Stark ...8

Brienne of Tarth ...3

Cersei Lannister ...6

Daenerys Targaryen ...7

Davos Seaworth ...4

Jaime Lannister ...3

Jon Snow ...3

Jon Connington ...3

Melisandre ...4

Samwell Tarly ..3

Sansa Stark ...4

Theon Greyjoy ...5

Tyrion Lannister ...7

Victarion Greyjoy ...3

POV chapter count: 86

Prologue: GRRM has mentioned that we will see Jeyne Westerling. Which means this will be in the Westerlands. We may see Edmure Tully and possibly the Blackfish through this prologue.

Epilogue: The Wall and the arrival of the Others.

Location wise split of above chapters:

Essos/Vaes Dothrak/Meereen/Yunkai/Dany landing in Westeros: 21

The North: 12

Braavos/Arya in Westeros: 8

Beyond the Wall: 8

The Wall: 7

Stormlands/Young Griff’s campaign to KL: 6

King’s Landing: 6

Riverlands: 6

Oldtown: 6

Vale: 4

Dorne:2

Total: 88 chapters up from the 73 chapters in ADwD. The chapters could be of shorter length though, if GRRM cuts down on descriptions of feasts and travelogues. This is where his editor could massively help and GRRM has mentioned going back and tweaking things. For example, that Arianne sample chapter from TWoW would have her get to Young Griff instead of spending two chapters just traveling.

If we look at word counts:

A Game of Thrones: 4082 words per chapter (298k in 73 chapters)

A Clash of Kings: 4657 (326k in 70 chapters)

A Storm of Swords: 5171 (424k in 82 chapters)

A Feast for Crows: 6522 (300k in 46 chapters)

A Dance with Dragons: 5781 words per chapter (422k in 73 chapters)

He needs to go back to AGoT chapter lengths and then perhaps the limitations of book binding would not be a problem.

Here is also a link to confirmed POV chapters in TWoW. But note that this may have changed since GRRM did state in a recent notablog post that he was going back and changing things - combining chapters, splitting them, rewriting them etc.

Arya: 4

Tyrion: 3

Barristan: 3

Arianne: 3

Melisandre: 2

Theon: 2

Aeron: 2

Areo Hotah: 2

Cersei: 2

Asha: 2

Jon Connington: 2

Sansa: 1

Victarion: 1

Bran: 1

Daenerys: 1

Davos: 1

Confirmed Chapters: 33

Below the cut I have put in some of my reasoning for my POV counts.

First, I think GRRM needs to refocus on his main story and characters and make his way to the ending. That means more focus on main characters and less time spend on secondary characters. He should be spending time getting Arya, Bran, Jon, Dany and Tyrion etc. to their endgames rather than spend more time world building and telling the stories of secondary characters.

For example, Bran had like 3 chapters in Feast and Dance while Brienne got 8! Who is the more important character here? There are two books left, Bran has to finish training, find out stuff about the Others, explore lands of always winter, return south of the wall, meet back up with Jon and Arya, play a big part in defeating the Others and become King.

GRRM has written material for an entire book with Arya in Braavos. Unfortunately ASoIaF is not about Arya’s FM adventures in Braavos and Arya needs to get back to Westeros. So George has chop, cut, edit and narrow down her story there to like maybe 5 chapters before she leaves.

So either George cuts out a lot of the fat, travelogues, world building and secondary characters or he needs 8/9 books to finish or he can change his endings to suit what he has written now or he can procrastinate and just not write.

Some of the things GRRM has said regarding TWoW.

GRRM teases about events in TWOW in this interview  

“I think we’re gonna start out with a big smash with the two enormous  battles,” Martin says. Presumably one of those battles refers to the  clash between Ramsay’s army and Stannis’s forces in the North (the  outcome of which was described in Ramsay’s letter in ADWD—perhaps  falsely?—but not actively shown), while the other takes place across the  narrow sea when Yunkai attacks Meereen in an attempt to overthrow  Daenerys. In addition, Martin says, “We have more deaths, and we have  more betrayals. We have more marriages.” Let the speculation begin. As  he’s noted before, Martin says the Dothraki are coming back into the  story (“in a big way”), and he says “a lot of stuff is happening at The  Wall.”

From his Notablog updates:

06/23/2020

Of late I have been visiting with Cersei, Asha, Tyrion, Ser Barristan,  and Areo Hotah.   I will be dropping back into Braavos next week.   Now you will have to excuse me.  Arya is calling. I think she means to kill someone.

08/11/2020

Of late I have been spending a lot of time with the Lannisters.  Cersei  and Tyrion in particular.   I’ve also paid a visit to Dorne, and dropped  in to Oldtown a time or three.   In addition to turning out new  chapters, I’ve been revising some old ones (some very old)… including,  yes, some stuff I read at cons ages ago, or even posted online as  samples.   I tweak stuff constantly, and sometimes go beyond tweaking,  moving things around, combining chapters, breaking chapters in two,  reordering stuff.

08/15/2020

For the nonce, it is what it is.   My life is at home, on hold, and I am  spending the days in Westeros with my pals Mel and Sam and Vic and Ty. And that girl with no name, over there in Braavos.

Now, there are three things that GRRM just has to get done in TWoW, IMO.

Daenerys Targaryen has to resolve her Essos plot and get to Westeros by the end of TWoW.

Arya has to resolve her Braavos plot and get to Westeros

Bran has to advance a great deal in his plot/Bloodraven/Others etc. 

(Note: I suspect this is one of the reasons that TWoW is taking so long. By his own admission, Dany and Bran are the two characters GRRM finds hardest to write and my speculation is that there is a lot of these two characters in the next book.)

So I am going to assign Arya and Bran the most POV chapters - let’s say 8 each since they are the only POVs at their locations. The Essos plot is a complicated mess, but we have other POVs focused on there as well - Tyrion, Barristan and Victarion. And Tyrion will no doubt get a good chunk of chapters because GRRM likes to write for him and finds it easy to write for him.

For Oldtown I am assigning 6 chapters - 3 from Sam’s POV and 3 from Aeron giving us a look into what Euron is upto. Or it could be 4 for Sam and 2 for Aeron.

I suspect not much happening in Dorne until they align with Young Griff. Arianne and Jon Connington with a look into fAegon’s campaign advancing into KL. Some Vale stuff with Sansa and LF.

GRRM mentions spending a lot of time with Cersei and Tyrion. Cersei remains the only POV in KL and that’s an important location. Jaime and Brienne are together so GRRM can use either of them for Lady Stoneheart/the Brotherhood/Riverlands.

Lots happening at the wall. Big battles in the North and the resolution of the Northern plot - Theon/Asha with Stannis and Davos with Rickon/Northerners. I am not sure if Jon will get a POV - so I am giving him just 3 in case. I think the majority viewpoint will be Mel.

[angeli-marco-writes]

Elizabeth Debicki - Gorgeous

A/N & WC - Back again with Elizabeth and Taylor Swift. Reputation is my favourite album currently, with evermore as a close second. Two incredible women in one yes please. Listen to 'Gorgeous' while reading for the feel of it. 2.8k exactly.

Warnings - Legal alcohol consumption, mild cursing once.

Summary - Elizabeth is gorgeous, just look at her, the world can see it. A drunken night leads to some tipsy confessions, but does Elizabeth feel the same?

“YOU'RE SO GORGEOUS…”

“What was that?” Elizabeth swiftly cuts in.

Your eyes grow wide in an instant, looking down intensely at the black table, sticky with spilt drinks, and turn your attention away.

“Nothing…” you trail off. Frankly, you hadn’t realised you were thinking aloud, but if you said what you were thinking, then tonight's girls night out with your best friend is gonna be a whole lot harder.

“So as I was saying, this guy from Bumble, he comes and he looks nothing like his profile picture, right?” Her eyes are so animated when she speaks, her jaw agog in a remembering shock, she taps at her glass with ebony painted fingernails. “Like his picture was a solid eight outta ten, but in person, not even a four. But there was something about him, you know? That little twinkle in his eye, so I gave him more of a fair shot than I do other catfishes.” You hum noncommittally, not necessarily listening to the words, but the soft undulating animation in her beautiful accent is worth listening to any day, even if just hearing about her going on a date with someone riles you up intensely. “No personality,” she gapes, smacking her lissom hands down on the table with a slight thump, causing some of her wine to spill. “Absolutely none! It was like talking to a brick wall for half an hour. Can you believe it? And he asked what part of Australia I was from, and when I said Melbourne, you know what he said? ‘Is that in New Zealand.’”

She scoffs, and downs the last of her wine. Her magnetic field is so strong, so alluring, you can’t help but feel drawn to her even more. She really should think about the consequences of her charisma or else you might snog her and ruin everything before the nights even over.

“What a dick,” you play along.

“Ugh, I know. Refill?”

“Please. Whiskey—”

“On ice. I know, hon.”

She smirks, shooting you a wink before standing up and practically gliding across the room to the bar. Your eyes twinkle with hope, with sinful want, as you watch her, and you’re sure that with your wistful expression and flushed cheeks and the way your mouth suddenly goes dry the second she says or does anything that could be construed in the least bit flirtatious that she knows how much you like her. Your whole body tingles, your words and sense swallowed up by an intense fire the second she touches you, it’s beginning to make you furious that she’s able to make you feel this way and still acts so coy about it if she even does have the first clue how utterly besotted you are with everything she does.

Over at the bar, Liz has to hunch to lean her forearms on the countertop, kicking her feet back a little, her short dress showing off her long, shapely legs with grace. She looks so sultry, with her leather jacket shrugged so casually over her pale shoulders. But your mind and illicit thoughts plummet and die the second you peer around her and capture a look at the bartender she’s talking to. Tall and that muscular build of slim that only comes from years of sport, a pinched waist and full chest, tanned skin—perhaps of Filipina descent, dark inky hair falling in tendrils from her work ponytail, no makeup and she still looks stunning. And exactly like Shay Mitchell. And she's flirting with your Elizabeth. Not that she’s yours or anything, that would be absurd, unless…

This woman is gorgeous, and you’re already jealous of her, of the attention she’s receiving from Elizabeth; the suggestive touches, the coy laughs, the revealing tug of her dress, the tentative tilt of her head, the run of her slender hand through her choppy blonde locks. But because Liz is single, it’s actually worse, because she’s been a lot more open and experimental with her sexuality recently, not labelling it but trying more out, trying more partners out. And you don’t fault her for that for even a moment, but why she can’t experiment with you, a raging queer, is beyond your grasp. It’s almost undoubted that she’s going to be taking this incredibly scorching hot bartender home at the end of the night, and if you weren’t out with Elizabeth, you’d be making the same move. But Liz… she desperately needs to think of the consequences of her touching this romans hand in a darkened room. That should be you.

You can’t get too possessive, though, as Liz has done her fair amount of touching you all night on this signature girls pub crawl, but it’s not the same, it’s not… enough. She’s been holding your hand, hooking her arm through yours to do shots, hugging you with her lithe arm around your waist as you totter down the high street in heels too high. It’s all been too friendly, though. And now it’s getting late, your final destination of the night. You’re practically the only patrons with a conscience at this point. You’ll be turning in soon, the bar will be closing soon, it’s inevitable. Liz will have a warm bed, and you’ll be left to go home alone to your cats. She’s so gorgeous, you can't blame the bartender, but she can’t blame you wither; love made you crazy.

You’re busy brooding over the ice slowly melting at the bottom of your glass, condensation forming in droplets on the rim when Liz casts a glance over her shoulder, a bright beaming smile etched upon her face, every line drawn up to match her glee. She points a long raven-painted digit at you, and prompts you to smile back, which you do—without even half as much fervour—and ensure you incline your head towards the bartender, whose dark hazel eyes are now fixed on you, before turning back, pretending to have found something of interest on the table.

“That’s y/n,” she says in a happy, furtive whisper, “my best friend.”

With her ocean blue eyes looking in yours, your mind is all scrambled, and with the intense feeling you might sink and drown and die, you know you need to get it in order before she returns, so you push your own stool out and head to stand in the doorway, fresh air hitting you like a brick wall.

The smell of the city instantly prevents it being worthwhile.

The sun set long ago, and you can see vines crawling up the building across the road from you, even in the dim street light and shadows. Even in a tucked away corner of the city, down back streets in a quiet quarter, the incessant incense of exhaust fumes and chippy food and pigeon shit never quite leaves one alone.

Everything’s winding down, quietening, muffled by an indelible blanket of night. A soft mist fills the air, an impending storm infiltrating your senses, roiling you a little. The walk home will be made worse by the rain soon to fall, ire digging at you for more reasons than one.

Elizabeth… She can make you so happy with one simple look that it turns back to sadness the moment you see the flicker of friendliness in her eyes, never anything more, never anything deeper, not once. What can you say? She’s gorgeous, she’s everyone else's for the taking, whoever she deems rakish enough to take home for the night.

The silence of the night, of your thoughts, is hewn by a sharp siren whizzing past you, so you push your pain away, and sidle back through the doors, shutting the slow drizzle of rain out as you close the door behind you.

Once you return inside, your thoughts slightly more reordered, you see her back at the table, fiddling idly with the hem of her dress, her cheeks tinted a soft red.

“So?”

“I got her number,” she confesses, barely able to bite back a smile, even as her perfect white teeth graze her lower lip. “She gets off shift in an hour.”

You were right, then.

“That’s nice. She’s hot.”

“I know,” she replies dreamily, “and looks exactly like Shay Mitchell, can you believe it? I fancied her so much when Pretty Little Liars first came out.”

“Yeah, I did too.” you admit quietly, clasping your hands around your fresh whiskey.

“You okay? It’s getting late, we can head off now.”

“Nope, absolutely fine. In fact, I think I’ll have another. Tell me something.”

“But we haven’t talked about you all night, I wanna know how your life is going. Love life too.” she protests.

What, your life with the monotonous job and the zero romantic prospects so you spend all your free time sitting at home reading and the nights with your vibrator and Liz in your head? How the hell are you supposed to tell her that.

You simply shrug, and keep a mask of cold, hard resolve in place. “You know my life. I’m interested in yours. Go on.”

So she does. And you do order another whiskey after your first, to the point where you’re verging on the highest restraints of merely tipsy and if you have another you’re heading fast for straight out drunk, which you shan’t do. But you’re merry, and Liz’s words all sound weird, slurred a little from the alcohol, her Australian accent bending to accommodate the vowel sounds she’s making with the occasional slip of a Polish or French word in there. She gets like this when she’s drinking, and it’s one of her most endearing qualities very few are able to see.

“Your voice sounds really weird,” you chuckle, leaning back in your chair, “you’re talkin’ all funny.”

“No I’m not!”

“You are.”

“Am so not!” She’s persistent, she never did back down easy.

You half heartedly shrug, knocking your glasses into one another on the table. You tug your jacket further around you, and purse your lips readying for battle.

“You know, you really should take it as a compliment that I’ve got drunk and I’m making fun of the way you talk.”

She allows her precisely plucked brows to dance over her face in surprise, though quickly schools her features into a plain mask.

“Alright, what’s up?”

“Nothing, Liz. I’m fine.” you say adamantly, and take another swig from your drink, savouring the tang on your tongue. Your glass makes another thud when you slam it down with unplanned and unnecessary force.

“You see, your mouth says that, but your… mouth is telling me something else?”

Before you can help it, your fingers are clutching the edge of the table, your cheeks heating softly, “I haven’t kissed you yet, how can that be?”

A chill slithers down your skin as her eyes grow wide, her pale skin blanching a shade further. “I didn’t mean, um, what? I—” she breaks off with a cough. “I ju— just meant that, um, you’re… sulking.”

“Oh.”

You can’t ignore the way your stomach plummets into the core of the earth, embarrassment taking over every other rational thought within your mind and body. Your soul is already brittle, but this? Your pride has certainly taken a knock enough for you to down the rest of your whiskey in one gulp.

“I’m gonna take off,” you say at last, across the curious blanket of silence, ignoring the way her angular face—limned with hope—falls a fraction.

“Please stay.”

You don’t think you hear her correctly, if at all. For all you know, her words could just be a whisper in the blustering breeze beating outside, the storm you predicted arriving early. In the dim bar, you’re away from it all, sage, until the bartender gets off shift and snatches Liz away for yet another night.

“Beg pardon?”

“Please stay,” she repeats, louder this time, but her blue eyes don’t meet yours across the table. “Tell me what’s up.”

She’s not backing down, so you brace yourself, allowing brazenness to fill you with courage, allowing your alcohol to eddie around you, summoning the words at long last.

“Nothing…” you say at first, because really, it is nothing, but she cocks her head at you that authoritative way. God, she should be a teacher with her assertive glances. “Just that you‘re so gorgeous I can’t say anything to your face…” you snatch her cup across the table, and take a deep swallow before shrugging and casting your gaze outside to spare yourself the mortification of being rejected. “Sober at least.”

You’re met with a beat of silence, “Why?”

“Look at your face!” you shout, utterly exasperated. You’ve got a good mind to pull a compact mirror to remind her how drop-dead stunning she is. “I’m so furious at you for making me feel this way.”

“Why, baby? What way?” she croons.

Too caught up in your momentary lapse of judgement and rant, you fail to notice her edging closer to you, moving your glasses out the way, letting her forearms rest on the sticky table just so she can watch the way you lick your lips with nerves.

“Crazy, because you’re so gorgeous it actually hurts.”

“R—really?” she stammers.

You turn back to her, all thoughts evaporating with her ocean blue eyes looking in yours, driving you insane. Her pretty lips are all parted and awaiting, how much you want to kiss her… So instead, you pout, and begin to throw a strop in your tipsy state.

“Tell me more.”

“No.”

“C’mon,” she teases, a smirk toying at her mouth, giving her cheeks subtle dimples. “Don’t leave me hanging. “Tell me what you really think. How I make you feel. I wanna hear,” her voice drops to a purr, leaning over the table to husk in your ear, “every little thing.”

“Ok then,” you concede. “You're so cool, it makes me hate you so much.”

“I don’t see how,” she snorts, “but continue.”

Her attention never once fails you or turns away, enamoured with your every mere breath.

“You’re gorgeous. Your magnetic field is too strong for me to cope. Your energy draws me in. You’re all I want.”

“More.” she coaxes, a single word, but a whisper, and yet it stokes the embers of desire in the pit of your stomach, your forehead creasing to attempt to draw some concentration back from the depths of your mind where your fantasies about her saying that exact word in that exact breathy way linger.

Perhaps your adulation is excessive, but you don't miss the sparkle in her eyes at each compliment you dole. This is your final card, though, and you’re going to play it right, so you forget about the consequences of touching her hand in a darkness room, and simply intertwine your fingers, drawing your noses to meet over the table.

“You've ruined my life, by not being mine,” you profess, ensuring that your hot breath fans over her lips. You can feel her shudder. “And you know there’s nothing I hate more than what I can’t have.”

“I’m all yours if you’ll have me.”

And just like that, the world stops turning around you. Your heart lilts, your mind prattles on about all you want to say, all you want to do. But then it stops. And all of a sudden, you’re intrepid, desperate to ravish her and ruin her for all other women, eager to kiss her voraciously until you can scarcely breathe, yearning to feel her words of reassurance wrap around you, if only she agrees to your proposal over that of the hot bartender.

“Well, I’ve told you what's up, so I guess I'll just stumble on home to my cats. Alone... unless you wanna come along.”

You push away from the table and stand with a slight shrug, turning your back on her, making strides for the door and the storm bristling outside. Only, you barely make it to the door before Liz’s slender hand is wrapped around your arm, and is turning you back to her, tugging you closer, chest to chest, nose to nose.

“Fuck yes, księżniczka. After that, of course I’m coming.”

Your lips meet in a fiery kiss, a desperate battle of will, and her tongue slides over the seam of your lips. You grant her entry with an open mouth, heat skittering over your skin as she holds you tighter, closer, with a deeper urgency you don’t hesitate to match.

Her crystal eyes simmer as she withdraws, her forehead on yours. Her lips brush yours as she breathes, and she grabs your hand, heading out into the night with Liz, at long last.

“For the record, you’re gorgeous and perfect and drive me crazy too. Everything you said tonight, I echo. What can I say?”

You’re gorgeous.

[excelsi-or]

your type (pt. 2)

Hello friends! I’ve been working on my comic and applying for jobs and doing research, so I haven’t had much time to write. 

I hope you guys enjoy this series. As I’m writing it, it’s different from the two I’ve written before. Hope you’re all well~~

BIPOC rec: I’m recommending a variety show and drama that I’ve watched the last two weeks. I finished Busted! and The Uncanny Counter and I’m recommending Kim Sejeong’s EP Plant. 

LOL yes, the theme is Kim Sejeong. After watching her on Busted!, I really became a fan of her energy and her charm. I thoroughly admire her. Enjoy her work like I do!

w.c. 1.6k (enjoy the snarky conversation)

pt. 1; pt. 2; pt. 3

The next morning, Jihyo steps into the apartment looking dishevelled but happy. The sight of her roommate in the kitchen catches her off guard. “Why are you up so early? You went home late.”

“You’re back early,” she comments, scrolling through her phone.

“I wanted to get home before you got up, which obviously wasn’t early enough.” Jihyo goes into her bedroom to drop off her things and change. “You didn’t say why you were up so early?” she calls.

“Jihoon is taking me to breakfast apparently,” she calls back.

“What?” Jihyo steps out of her bedroom and moves to the doorway of the kitchen in her bra and jeans. “Who’staking you to breakfast?”

“Jihoon.”

Jihyo’s eyebrows furrow. “You know who he is, right?”

She sips her tea with a nod. “Well aware.”

“So why are you going to breakfast with him?”

She shrugs. “He asked. It’s not like it’s going to be anything and I’m not going to pass up breakfast.”

“Lee Jihoon only talks to a very select number of people: his twelve friends, plus or minus a few in his classes, and girls that he’s trying to get into his bed.”

“And you know I don’t do that anymore,” she huffs. “He asked me to breakfast. I said 9 AM in the lobby.” She shrugs as she sips her tea. “If he’s not there, then it’s whatever. I’ll bring back coffee and croissants.”

Jihyo shakes her head in disbelief as she goes back to the bedroom to finish changing. “Lee Jihoon is untouchable. You must be some special breed!”

She laughs and downs the rest of her tea. She slips into her sneakers and throws on a coat. Her plan is to sit in the chairs in the lobby, wait until 9, and then head back upstairs. When she steps off the elevator, she finds Lee Jihoon leaning against the stairs’ handrail with his phone in hand.

She pushes the door open. “Morning.”

Jihoon looks over at her. “Ready?”

She hesitates, but nods, letting the door shut behind her. “Yeah, let’s go.”

They start walking, and once again, it’s silent. She wonders if he’ll break it. Since they didn’t decide on an actual breakfast place and she doesn’t want to break the silence first, she leads him to her favourite breakfast spot. She smiles at a few of the storeowners who are just opening up.

“Some new books have just come in. I think you’ll like them,” the bookshop owner calls to her.

“I promise I’ll come in after my exams.”

“Study hard!” the woman calls before ducking into her store.

They walk into the restaurant and the host smiles when he sees her. “Hey, noona. How are you?”

“Tired, but good,” she says with a smile. “For 2?”

Taeyong collects two menus, glances at the man over her shoulder, reorders his face from surprised to neutral, and leads them to a table by the window. “Can I start you with anything?”

His question is directed at Jihoon. Jihoon looks to her and she holds his gaze. When he doesn’t say anything, she looks up to Taeyong. “Black coffee.”

“And your iced chai,” Taeyong adds. He walks away, still scribbling in his notebook.

She flips through her menu, debating trying something new despite knowing that she’ll just get the same thing in the end.

“You just don’t talk much?” Jihoon asks.

“I talk plenty,” she answers, dropping her menu. “You just don’t seem to have anything to say to me.”

“Other people usually start the conversation.”

“You’re the one who asked me to breakfast.” She looks over when Taeyong returns with their drinks. “Thank you.”

“Do you need a few more minutes with menu?”

She looks to Jihoon.

Jihoon doesn’t meet his eye. “Yes, please.”

She and Taeyong share a small smile before he nods and walks away to serve another table.

“I’ve never seen you around,” Jihoon starts.

“I’m graduating next winter.”

Jihoon lifts an eyebrow. “So am I. Did you transfer in?”

She shakes her head. “Nope. I guess we just don’t run in the same circles.” She toys with the corner of the menu.

“I guess I only just met your friends a few weeks ago when Cheol started inviting them over.” He skims through the menu. “You not that close or just choose not to come?”

“Choose not to come.” She traces the grain in the tabletop.

Jihoon frowns slightly at the short answers. She seems to sense him staring and her eyes lift. “You have a boyfriend?”

“If I did, I definitely wouldn’t be sitting across this table from you.”

“So… is this a date?”

She shrugs. “Is it?”

“I’ve noticed you’re nicer to everyone else than me.”

A small smile grows on her face. “I didn’t realize that you noticed.”

“So, you’re doing it on purpose.”

“You’re not really giving me much to vibe off of, you do realize that, right?”

Jihoon’s eyes stop moving over the menu, as he thinks about that statement. “Most people just talk to fill all the silences. Or go on their phone until they can think of something to say.”

“Who are these people?” she asks.

“Other girls I’ve taken on dates. New people I meet.”

“Ever think that maybe they were intimidated or were seeking out your attention already?”

“You could have not met me for breakfast.”

“I’m currently unresponsive, not evil,” she snorts, a grin on her face.

Taeyong returns to the table. “Do we know what we want?”

“Yes, I’m ready.” Jihoon fires off his order and looks to her expectantly. She simply turns to Taeyong and her smile broadens.

He nods. “Your usual. Got it.” The man collects the menus and walks away.

“How often do you come here?” Jihoon asks. He sips his coffee. “And how did you know I like my coffee black?”

“Since I moved in with Jihyo in first year. And I didn’t. I figured if you hated black coffee, you would’ve said so.”

Jihoon hums, sipping his coffee again. “So, you’re not seeking out my attention, you don’t want to hang out with my friends. You still haven’t answered why you bothered to meet me for breakfast when you could have said no if you were so uninterested.”

“I’m intrigued.” She fiddles with the utensils. “I’m not opposed to dating. I’m just not actively seeking anything out.”

“You have a lot of exes then?”

“You’re gonna ask that during our first conversation? Wow.” She chuckles and cups her water between her hands. “No. I have one.”

“One of the guys that you’re meeting later?”

“Yeah, actually.” She sips her chai and looks out the window, watching a group of high school girls laughing together.

When she doesn’t come right out with anything to ask him, Jihoon tries a different approach. “So, what do you want to know about me?”

“I don’t know yet.” She tips her head. “How much are you willing to share?”

“I’m an open book.”

This causes her to laugh. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Jihoon readjusts himself in his seat and leans forward on his elbows, his coffee between his hands.

She studies him a moment before matching his posture. “What draws you to a woman? What makes you pick her out of a crowd and go ‘she’s the one today’?”

“Today?”

She smirks. “I’ve heard your reputation even if you haven’t heard mine.”

“I’ve met people who have dated your friends. They like the chase; are you the same?”

“Not anymore.” She sips her drink, not taking her eyes off him. “And you didn’t answer my question.”

“What makes me pick out a woman in a crowd? Honestly?”

She nods once.

“How she looks. Her ass.” Jihoon shrugs. Since it seems she only asks if she wants to know the answers, he figures he might as well be blunt. “It’s superficial and crude, but it gets the job done.”

“Normally that would be a real turn off.” Her brow lifts. “But I’m not typically known for my ass.” She points her fork at him. “Don’t talk about my ass.”

He smirks. “I didn’t pick you because of your ass.”

“I know.” She rests her cheek in her palm. “You picked me out because I beat you at Stress last night.”

Jihoon tries not to react, but he wonders how she knows.

“You were surprised I beat you,” she says. “I’m taking it that you don’t like to lose or aren’t used to losing.”

“Music department’s competitive. I don’t think a lot of people understand that.”

“Every degree is competitive. Everyone wants to be the best student. I don’t get how that translates to cards.”

“Do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Want to be the best student?”

She laughs. “I’m kinda over trying to be the best. I just want to be done.”

“What degree are you in?”

Conversation starts to flow a bit easier after the initial icebreaker questions. Hers aren’t icebreakers; they are definitely personal deep dives. Jihoon finds, though, that he doesn’t mind answering them. They make it through their meal and wind up talking for an hour afterwards. The only reason that they get up is because she wants to study for her chemistry quiz before going to lunch with Yoongi and Jungkook.

Jihoon walks her back to her apartment and waits at the bottom of the steps until she opens the lobby door.

“I still don’t get your number?” Jihoon calls.

She looks over her shoulder and shakes her head. “Phone numbers promise future dates.” She gives him a once over and smirks. “And I don’t trust your promises. Thanks for a great breakfast, Jihoon.”

Jihoon can’t help but chuckle at that. “Will you at least come the next time Cheol invites your friends over?”

She lifts her chin and tips her head both ways. “I had fun.” She smiles at him and ducks into her building.

pt. 3

[ghostsfacer]

I really didn't think "making sure the groomsmen have clothes" was really gonna be the hardest fucking part of wedding planning, yet here we are.....

Here's the story of my woes. Back in like February while my sister and I were both planning our weddings, we found a nice grey sport coat that we both wanted the groomsmen at our weddings to wear. It worked out nicely because our brother was a groomsman at both weddings, so by choosing the same one he would only have to buy one thing instead of two. AND it was on sale at the time for like $50 which is pretty good for a nice sport coat. So he bought that, and I went ahead and told the other 4 groomsmen for my wedding that they should get it while it was on sale as well.

Three of them said they didn't know their size, didn't feel confident measuring themselves at home to determine a size, and weren't comfortable going into a store to be measured during the pandemic. That's fine, totally reasonable, but I did express my concern for the possibility of this garment not being available indefinitely, so I urged them to get their measurements as soon as they felt comfortable doing so.

Anyway my brother got his in time for my sister's March wedding and it looked great. The rest of my groomsmen agreed that June would be the best time for all of them to get measured, we set a date for us all to meet at Men's Wearhouse and get everyone's sizes at once, and possibly try the jackets on in person if they had any in stock. So June rolls around and I'm getting nervous cause I see the sport coat listing online now says "clearance". Anyway the day comes that we are all supposed to meet and one of the groomsmen says he forgot about it and now has a scheduling conflict and can't make it, so everyone decides to wait and go another time. So we wait another week and it's a no go again. So we wait another two weeks and finally everyone is ready.

We all meet at the store and a woman greets us, gets everyone's measurements and then asks us what we are looking for. I show her the listing for the coat and she literally laughs at me. "Haha yeah no we don't sell that brand" (idk if she means they don't sell it ANYMORE or IN STORE or what, cause it's literally their website I'm showing her but idk, they don't have it is the point). By this time there are only 3 sizes still listed on the website, none of which are the sizes we need. Cool, so can't get that anymore and my brother will have to get a second thing after all.

So we say okay well we also need a suit for my fiance, the groom. She measures him, shows him one jacket that doesn't have matching pants, and one jacket that she then says she can't actually sell to us, then, leaning over a clothes rack says "yeah I don't really know what to do from here, we don't really have anything here. I have some stuff in the $500 range but that's not in your budget" (keep in mind she never asked us what our budget was, and we had budgeted up to $800 for fiance's suit, so that comment kind of rubbed me the wrong way, especially when I'm already frustrated that I have to start from square 1 with the groomsmen)

So we basically just shrug our shoulders and everyone goes home, where I start searching the internet trying to find a nice grey jacket similar to the one we had in mind for the groomsmen initially. Now, there are three boxes we need to check for this coat to work for us. 1- must be grey, preferably a lightish grey. 2- has to be made in all the groomsmen's sizes (34R, 36S, 40T, 42T, 50R). 3- has to be at a reasonable price, as fiance has volunteered to pay for all 5 groomsmen's jackets. Keep in mind the original one found was $50 when I first recommended they order it.

The MOST difficult box to check is number 2. I can't find ANYTHING that is available in all the sizes we need. Absolutely nothing. I'm searching every store I've ever heard of. I cant find anything. And most of the things I'm finding in general are like $120 minimum so that's not great either.

Finally I have to go with the thing that come CLOSEST to checking all the boxes, which is a blazer from JCPenney. The smallest size they make is a 36, so our size 34 guy has to go one size bigger and have it tailored down. Two other sizes we need aren't available in grey for some bizarre reason, so they have to go up one size as well. But that's all close enough. The blazer is $180 originally but a limited time sale has it going for $70 so we order all 5 right away.

Ordered them on Sunday. Monday I get a shipping confirmation email for only two of the jackets, the others haven't shipped out yet. That's fine, whatever. Today is Wednesday, and one of the jackets has arrived and fits the guy well. Then this evening I get an email saying the other jacket that shipped is actually out of stock so they went ahead and cancelled my order. (How did you ship something on Monday that apparently doesn't exist??? What was in the box you told me you sent??) Of course the one that got cancelled is the size 36R, so if that's out of stock then we have to order ANOTHER size up??? Going up one size is fine but going up two sizes he's gonna be drowning in this jacket. Not to mention the sale is over so if I try to reorder its more than two times what I originally paid for it.

Plus, there are still three more jackets just out there in limbo that haven't shipped yet. Who knows if those will ever come, or if they will magically become out of stock before they decide to ship them as well. What the fuck am I supposed to do. This jacket was the ONLY THING I COULD FIND that would fit all the boys and now it seems like I'm gonna have to start all over AGAIN.

And y'all I haven't even told you about my adventure finding pants for these guys. I'm gonna have a mental breakdown over menswear.

[robertsbarbie]

i reordered folklore/ evermore to show the cohesion of the full timeline and so i’m gonna list it below and my reasonings so y’all can psychoanalyze me all you want. also i’m sorry if this doesn’t make sense i’m literally mentally ill what do you expect.

1. illicit affairs

- the start of this whole lovely mess <3 it’s basically nearing the end of the love affair and how beautiful and shiny it was in the summer only to fall with the cold. many of the lyrics parallel the euphoria of summer love and we see some of the first signs of j*mes being lowkey manipulative with “you don’t matter to me in a real way” and august realizes the way she got lost in it.

2. hoax

- uh oh sisters betty just found out about the hashtag affair. lots of the imagery parallels the injustices done by someone you put your unconditional love in and no matter what she does she can’t draw herself out of it. she mapped out their whole life (as seen later in cardigan) dont talk to me about the bridge.. i’m aware but also it works okay. trust me.

3. betty

- okay so we’re well into the school year enough so that it’s actually a big noticeable deal when betty moves classes. the summer has finally caught up with them. IMMEDIATELY tries to blame betty and his own incompetence of being seventeen because come on who knows anything when they’re young? also party? hmm... sounds relevant to later in the story. admits august means nothing, it’s only always betty and so..... they get back together indicated by the last lyrics “kissing in my car again stopped at a streetlight you know i missed you” ... don’t get me started okay lmao

4. august

- baby i’m so sorry alkakaks basically everything in this song is showing august being burned. like she’s looking back at all she gave to james and hey she didn’t ask for more! so why is she feeling hurt at the fact he’s back with betty at school. like specifically the lyric “will you call when you’re back at school? i remember thinking i had you” indicating it wasn’t “just a summer thing” and she was still on james’ hook. and really august is just sad because she realizes that james wasn’t hers to lose (he was dating betty she was the one who had the right to be hurt) but she lost a part of herself all the same. also this has a messy timeline in my mind cause i think of it based right after betty and james get back together and also while they’re in college...

5. mirrorball

- this is a self reflective song for betty really. she realizes she’s giving so much of herself to others and the need to be this mirrorball and while she thinks she loves james she’s still falling to the point she’s gonna hit the ground and shatter. also not that i’m one to talk it kinda sets up the spiral of ✨mental illness✨ showing all the “crazy carnies” going home but her still being trapped in this act. (i also personally imagine this as their transition through college cause there needs to be year jumps regrettably 💜)

6. champagne problems

- i need to make one thing clear before we start, i’m a big advocate for the subject of champagne problems and think the lack of brain cells truly analyzing his character is annoying but in this timeline he’s james and i can’t stand him but any other time i love him and have thoughts tm about this specific story.

anyway. okay so we know this takes place after college. the allusions to the small town skeptics (how could james and betty make it? they’re so young? ect.) and as seen in mirrorball she’s just giving so much of herself that she realizes... this isn’t right. this isn’t what i want. james’ car... madhouses are often associated with fun houses a popular attraction at carnivals..... “our group of friends” they won’t share the same friends they’ll pick sides and everything that connects them will be cut. the dropped your hand while dancing line is honestly so interesting in this context because both exile and betty discuss the complexities of those you dance with. it’s important to note at this time in the timeline betty feels awful and responsible for this and when you pair it next to a lot of the wording in “betty” it’s like she still blames herself (also this will come later but ‘sometimes you just don’t know the answer’ parallels so nicely in the progression to “i don’t know anything” -> “i knew you”)

7. exile

- okay james is *bitter* bitter now 💜 i like to imagine this is a high school reunion or some shit a couple months after champagne problems. and betty has moved on with another guy and they’re, guess what? dancing. and she’s happy while james who has proposed is still stuck and he’s been defending her but now he feels wronged and hurt as if all the years they built meant nothing, she was just able to move on and it takes him back to when he and betty got back together but they still broke up in the end. THEN pan over to betty and it’s like he has no right to be upset because she’s had time to think it over and realized the tightrope she had been walking on was two thin and she couldn’t keep the balance anymore and it hurt but she had to let him go, it doesn’t help his eyes haven’t changed a bit. the she remembers how the dance when he saw her dance with someone else was the catalyst of their doomed relationship. and he made her feel like a burden (i hate this analysis but honestly in the sense of the timeline i’ll allow the parallel of “what a shame she’s fucked in the head”) there are subtle grasps of desperation on james’ part that he tried he just could never get through.

8. ‘tis the damn season

- guess who’s back bitches. that’s right AUGUST, it’s been years and they never really moved on from one another. she ran from that life determined to be better but now here she is back in the same place with the same guy, thinking “we used each other before why not again” i also like this narrative that august LEFT. and we see many parallels to previous encounters: “parked my car right between the methodist and the school that used to be ours”//“remember when i pulled up and said get in the car... meet me behind the mall” | “time flies messy as the mud on your truck tires”// “august slipped away into a moment in time cause you were never mine”// “your midas touch on the chevy door” | “sleep in half the day just for old times sake”//“i slept next to her but i dreamt of you all summer long” | just so many greta parallels. and it’s just gonna be another holiday fling, she knows it’s only breaking her heart he doesn’t care..

9. gold rush

- august stayed. or i guess he followed her? i’m a little hazy but nevertheless it’s that cautious anxiety about him when she know she shouldn’t. both LA and “august” could be the costal towns. it also showcases this built up life she has for them but knows he’s everyone else’s before he’s hers. her mind even goes as far as to turn his life into folklore, this story to live on and not just be something she reminisces about. now, and this is important, this all is playing out in her head while she’s debating to “jump in” to james so to speak it’ll make sense with this next song

10. willow

- i need you all to know at this point i’m going insane. so to speak august jumped in fully, watching as her life bends to his wind/ whim and how she made the comeback this is her moment but theres still the slipping of wine imagery, the sneaking into bed, his words lulling her sense of self, she ends up giving up control and herself to him allowing him to wreck her plans and there’s nothing on earth to convince me they don’t get married at the ending sequence.

11. tolerate it

- years later into marriage and august is 👏 unhappy 👏 because haha james has grown bored but she’s doubting if this is really over. she does everything in her power to keep his love, over looking his cheating and reasoning that he’s no longer younger he knows what he’s doing, honestly the correlation with her having lived in LA and the tendency when you’re young to get stuck in your age and yeah. and she doesn’t want to be something he forgets and slips away but she feels the pressure she’s taking up too much space in his life, like an inconvenience. and then she realizes she holds all the power. could bring all of this down cause she knows she can survive but she wants to know if there’s a chance. cause she knows she deserves better.

12. happiness

- theyre divorced, and now august is able to objectively look at their life together AGAIN THE FUCKING DANCING IMAGERY LIKE TALK DONT FUCKONH UNDERSTAND THE MUSIC STOPPED WHILE SHE WAS DANCING SHE NEVER DROPPED HIS HAND AND GOD ANYWAY she knows past the scars there was love it just wasn’t enough. and again i’m sad for her because she knows she’ll just be replaced like betty was... i’m so sad alkaksjsjdjf. and she really, she really doesn’t blame him she knows there was love on both parts but in the end they just hurt each other, seeing it for what it is. the pillow she could feel him sneaking in on.... i hate it here.

13. my tears richochet

- everything is said and done. and while they loved each other they didn’t love each other enough. and she did it she left them in ruin but now as it’s happening she’s seeing the fall out of it all and of course no one likes a madwoman so he stands with a perfect smile as her world falls apart. but she’s not sad so much as angry and lost, wedding imagery of what their life was,,,,,, dont talk to me about it okay. the discussion of she can go anywhere but home to her *insert ‘beloved’ meme* and she knows she KNOWS he’ll miss her, if only in a haunting. and when all is said and done their weapons only sunk below the fears, he became what he never wanted while she found herself in away.

(i will say 12/13 are interchangeable)

14. cardigan

- back to betty, now it’s betty’s turn to look back on her life. it’s starts with this romantical sense of what was and the ties you have to your favorite cardigan. “chase two girls lose the ONE” yes i think this directly relates to the “the 1” dont fucking look at me. also the position of “when you are young they assume you know nothing.” it was almost spiteful saying people just assumed betty was blind to james being a cheating dick but she had history with him and a love that came around once in 20 lifetimes much less one she didn’t wanna give that up. she only wanted the simple things. james wanted to dress it all up, even the ugly parts no matter who it could hurt in the long run. “i knew you stepping on the last train”// “you took the night train for a reason” james tried to change the ending by coming back but it didn’t work and it led to a hurricane of damage. even so he still lingers and she knew it would, she knew it haunt her and he’d come back because he always comes back. and while i firmly believe she actually never saw james again i can see him showing up on her doorstep after his divorce. it’s just it’s over all a sad nostalgic song of knowing someone and what that unfortunately entails no matter how bad you wnat it to be something else.

15. coney island

- listen i know there’s a m*n on this track but it’s kind of like a look back from both august and betty, wondering what in their lives went wrong? was it that they didn’t make james their priority, or themselves a priority? and it plays this loop of what if’s and how different their lives would be given one non interlocking part (read: james) the mall.... “were you waiting at our old spot.... did i leave you hanging every single day?” what if august hadn’t met up with james in secret, would leaving him hanging change anything? “standing in the hallway with a big cake happy birthday did i paint your bluest skies the darkest gray” what if august never happened (or betty never found out) and james was INVITED to the party would it still end in absolute ruin and darkness for betty only somehow more so? “when i walked up to the podium i think that i forgot to say your name” what if august went back to la and forgot about her summer fling, accomplished big things. things slip so fast when you’re young and you can’t help but wonder if one thing had been different would everything be different. this would be the album closer it makes cohesive sense but also alskakjskdjd

Bonus Tracks:

1. the 1

- betty has grown and healed and still catches glimpses of those shadows but overall she’s happy with her life. there’s only the lingering of what could have been, she knows the life is bittersweet and sometimes we still want it but we can only see it in memories with rose colored glasses. very very very much the musings of thinking about your first love.

2. right where you left me

- august, okay as like with betty these are nostalgias later in life so yeah. as we witnessed with most of august’s story time kept slipping through her fingers but now she’s stuck, like she constructed a loop of the events. because james was supposed to be the one, not the one she breaks up. if she could just freeze time everything could stay perfect but it blends with the horrid, and reality. she doesn’t want to be there but she can’t help it she’s still holding out hope it was all just some mistake.

(also like here’s the thing i know i could find a better ending for august if i really tried but i don’t have access to woodvale yet so this is what we’re stuck with)

** lots of these songs are stories/ timelines themselves so sometimes they don’t line up exactly as seen in august, hoax, ect

and yeah this probably doesn’t make sense and you all probably don’t care but i’ve genuinely thought about this numerous times and these aren’t even HALF my thoughts

[eyesfixedonthesun22]

New Year’s Eve

Summary: Steve and Peggy have a good friend who’s a handyman that comes and helps you out.  Pairing: Butcher/Handyman!Bucky x Female Reader Warning(s): Pure fluff. Widowed Bucky. Word Count: 2,711 Notes: This is my entry to @nacho-bucky‘s writing challenge! My prompt was “The smell of cologne on warm skin”. Thanks for hosting darling Cait!

“Do you need any help washing the dishes?” Peggy calls from your living room. Her and Steve lay sprawled across your couch, fire crackling and spitting in the hearth, spilling warm light in the otherwise dim room.

“I’m okay. The water pressure is still on the fritz. It takes so long to do them that I’ll end up doing most of them tomorrow.”

“It’s still-hic-broken?” Steve asks while rubbing his belly hoping to relieve some of the tension.

You can’t help the soft chuckle. He always got belchy when he overstuffed himself on your chicken pot pie. Tonight was no exception.

“The kitchen sink pressure is busted. The light switch for the second bedroom doesn’t work, my shower scalds me randomly. Ah the joy of owning an old house with charm.”

You’d moved to the small cozy town in upstate New York two years ago. Peggy and Steve lived a couple blocks away. After realizing that you and Peggy both worked at the same hospital, the two of you had become fast friends and Steve came along with her. You were a nurse at the town’s Veteran’s Affairs Hospital, and she helped coordinate the hospitals volunteer department. You were frequent visitors at each other’s homes for dinner.

“Really hun you should get those fixed.”

“I know. I’d fix it myself but electrical and plumbing are where my homemaking abilities stop.”

“I know someone who could help.” Steve chimes in. “I think he’s free tomorrow. He usually takes Sunday’s off from the shop and does some handyman work on the side. I could text him?”

You pause for a moment contemplating. Normally you’d balk at hiring help but if Peggy and Steve endorsed this handyman then he was trustworthy enough to let into your home where you lived alone. Probably kind enough not to comment on any mishaps you’d made in maintaining on your own either. Besides, you weren’t getting anywhere solving the issue on your own. You kept telling yourself that you’d set something up on your days off or take a look at it after your shifts. That had been happening since you’d moved in.

“Fine. Send him over.”

****

“The sink first? No, the shower?” You scratch out your writing and reorder the to do list on the house once more when a firm knock nearly startles you out of your seat.

You aren’t sure what you’re expecting when you throw the door open in the late December cold, but it certainly isn’t James Barnes.

He’s a tall man. Nearly appearing to fill your doorway before you invite him in. While he takes off a bright red knit cap and gloves, you take a moment to study him further. He folds the hat and gloves with a delicate reverence and large calloused hands before tucking them both inside the pockets of his jacket.

The planes of his face are that of a different era somehow. Softer. His full cheeks are flush and rosy. A stunning compliment next to the blue of his eyes. The brunette hair that was previously hidden by the winter hat falls nearly to his shoulders and curls at the ends ever so slightly. He’s clearly a strong man but it’s blanketed by a soft belly that strains the waist of his pants where his flannel is tucked.

“James, right?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He stands politely in the entryway of your home glancing around a moment before you realize he’s waiting for instructions. “Steve said you needed some help with plumbing and electrical work.”

“Ah yes! I made a list but I’m not sure what will make the most sense to start with.” You start towards the kitchen but don’t hear any footfalls behind you. “James?”

“I only have my boots,” he says plainly while staring at the footwear. “They’re covered in snow. I don’t want to track it in.”

“Just leave them by the door.”

You could have sworn you saw the rosy blush in the large man’s cheeks deepen. There was something strangely intimate about seeing him pad towards you in his woolen socks, toolbox in hand.

You’d shown James your list and it had been as if his entire demeanor had shifted. He asked you quick questions, took notes, looked at and studied the defective appliances. Gone was the shyness. Instead was a confidence and assuredness you found pleasing. You found yourself wondering why you’d waited so long to get these things fixed in the first place.    

The afternoon had gone by with light snow flurries falling on top of the white blanket already coating the ground. You lit a fire once more and baked some molasses cookies. It was a warm spiced recipe you hadn’t had since your childhood. The task gave you something to do with your hands while a stranger roamed around in your bathroom; dangerously near your shampoo. When the cookies were iced you found yourself placing a small pile onto a smaller plate and walking to the bathroom.

“Cookies?”

“These look wonderful.”

He wipes his hands clean and before you can blink, he inhales two of the cookies. “These are the best cookies I’ve ever tasted.”

“I think you’re flattering me.”

“I’m serious! My wife wasn’t much of a cook. She used to burn nearly everything. I had to do most of the cooking, or we went over to Peggy and Steve’s. Before they moved up here of course.”

“I can send the recipe home with you. So, she can try to bake these.”

You aren’t sure what you’ve said but his face falls for a moment before regaining a small sad smile. “I’ll take the recipe, but she won’t be baking them I’m afraid. My wife, Natasha, she passed away five years back.”

“I’m so sorry, James. I didn’t know.”

“It’s okay. Steve doesn’t talk about her much. He took it really hard. Blames himself. They used to work together you see.”

You absently grab a cookie to avoid saying something else foolhardy. These two years with Peggy and Steve and not once had they mentioned James nor his wife Natasha or this past life. Some wounds must really run deep.

“You’re in your head,” James says nudging your shoulder. You hadn’t realized how close the two of you had gotten in the small space. At this range you could smell his cologne. There was something woodsy about it. Like clean pine needles and amber. You found yourself knowing he’d be wonderful to be wrapped up in on a cold day like today while the snow falls in front of your fireplace. You cursed yourself for the indulgent thought after just learning the fate of his wife.

His smile warms you once more. “I’ll have to come back. The plumbing tasks were more complicated than I anticipated, and I’ll need to go pick up parts. Does tomorrow work for you? I know it’s New Year’s Eve, but Steve said you were eager for it to be fixed.”

“I’m gonna kill that man when I see him.”

“I know the feeling.”

James’s laugh was one you felt reverberate from deep down in his chest. The thing seemed to fill him up and warm his cheeks once more from the inside.

“I’m free tomorrow.”

***

This time when James knocks on your door you’re ready for the blue of his eyes to knock you off your feet. He nearly bounds through the door; following a similar routine as the day before. He folds the red hat and gloves neatly and places them in his jacket pocket, but this time removes his boots and sets them confidently on your shoe stand.

“I was thinking of getting started on the kitchen tasks if that’s okay with you.”

***

“Oh shit. Shit shit shit.”

“Everything okay?” James voice sounds from the cabinet under your sink.

“Well Peggy and Steve asked me if I’m willing to cook this very specific dish for their New Year’s Eve party and I said yes a while back, but I’d forgotten about it until now.”

“And the party is tonight. And all the stores and closed.”

“How’d you guess?”

“Well first, it is New Year’s Eve. And second, I’m going too.” He pauses sheepishly enjoying your mild panic. You hurry about the kitchen opening and closing various cabinets trying not to trip over his tools that are scattered in front of the sink. “What if I finish up here and then you come down the shop and I’ll let you get what you need there?”

“The shop?”

You vaguely remember Steve saying that this was something his friend did in his spare time, but you hadn’t paused to ask what his primary job was.

“My butcher shop. I own the shop on the corner of Miller and Melrose in town.”

“The really beautiful one? Blue and white building? Red letters?”

“That’s the one. But really, it’s nothing. Plus, then I can say I helped and then my store-bought cookies won’t seem like such a consolation dish.”

“Deal.”

***

The shop is dark and quiet; closed for the New Year’s holiday. You’d made several protests on the drive over to James about the inconvenience, but he’d shrugged them all off.

“What’s the point of owning a grocery and butcher shop if I can’t help out my friends when they’re in need,” he said with a bright grin before disappearing into the back room to get you the cuts of meat you’d ask for your braised short rib recipe. You wondered when he’d crossed from your handyman into friend. Then again, he’s Steve and Peggy’s friend. And he is awfully easy to talk to. Perhaps he is a friend already.  

You quickly threw everything you needed into your tote. His shop was small but well stocked with everything you needed. You hesitated at the small old-time cash register. Surely, he’d let you pay. He had to. You set the bag on the counter and, against your instincts, go behind the counter and into the back room.

“James, I need to know how much I owe you. Come ring me up?” you joke.

Your laughter is cut off slightly when you find him hunched over a large stainless-steel table, clad in a black rubber apron, slim sharp knife in hand and a full side of beef on the table. He’s at work slicing and cutting.

It’s a grace you’d never have guessed his large frame and calloused hands capable of possessing. Before, you’d seen the brute strength he’s capable off with the other chores at the house, but this was different. Each stroke was deliberate. Each knick, precise. He could have done this with his eyes closed.

“Just the short ribs or did you want some extras for later in the week for yourself while I have this out.”

You startle a bit clearly engrossed in watching his hands make quick work of the animal. “You really didn’t have to get this all out for me. I feel horrible.”

“Well I knew the boys had already closed up last night, holiday and all. I don’t mind. Really.” His blue eyes finally look up from the knife work into your own. “Let’s get you some steaks and stew meat.”

“Are you coming over for pot roast and steaks?”

“Is that an invite?”

It was hard to guess who was blushing more.

***

“I’m gonna need to be here in the kitchen while you work if these are going to be done on time for dinner. Is that okay?”

“Of course. It’s your house, doll. Besides, I’m nearly finished and I’m sure the smells will be amazing.”

You go along slicing the onions and searing the short ribs until they’re caramelized a deep brown on the outside. The onions get added and a hefty amount of garlic next. It’s about this time that James pops his head out from under the sink.

“All done. Plus, that smell is heavenly. What is it?”

“Garlic and onion.”

You add in the red wine to the heavy bottomed dutch oven and throw the dish into the oven for the next two hours. It’s shockingly easy to pass the time with James until the short ribs are done. The only difficult thing is swatting James away from the oven from “checking” on them every twenty minutes or so.

Steve and Peggy only live a short walk away but it’s blustery cold and halfway down your block you can feel your ears are stiff and red with chill. James has offered to carry the dutch oven full of short ribs and you carry his box of cookies.

“You didn’t bring a hat. Did you?”

“I’ll be okay. The walk isn’t far.”

He sighs before stopping and setting the crock on the sidewalk and removes the knit cap from his head. His mitten covered hands don’t give you a chance to voice your protest before he’s dragging the material onto your head and over your ears. In seconds they could scream thank you for having a barrier to the wind.

“Thank you, James.”

***

“Why are you wearing his hat?” Peggy exclaims before you can get your whole body through the door.

“Because my ears nearly fell off my head?”

“That’s the hat Natasha knitted him. He nearly went on a murderous rampage when he left it on a city bus one time. I know you don’t quite comprehend what that means but it’s serious.”

You glance across the room looking at James.

He’s engrossed in a conversation with Steve. His plump cheeks are a pink as ever. You’d learned that it never really goes away. You found it rather endearing. He looked beautiful with a flush on his skin. Steve must have said something funny because James’s little belly jumps up and down with each chuckle that tumbles from his lips. He certainly doesn’t look like someone capable of murderous rampage.

“I’m starting to think that maybe Steve should have suggested Bucky’s handyman services sooner.”

“Bucky?”

“His nickname.”

“Yeah well...so am I.”

***

The dinner party is small. New Year’s is rung in with drinks, laughter, and friends. Everyone enjoyed the braised short ribs and even Bucky’s (you’d teased him calling him this for the first time) cookies got sufficiently nibbled on.

“Can I walk you home?”

“Is James walking me home or is Bucky?”

You can’t tell if it’s the party jubilations, but you swear you see an eye roll as he playfully pushes you towards the door and your hosts. Steve wraps you in a massive hug, Peggy plants a kiss on your cheek and everyone says their goodbyes and Happy New Year’s.

The blustery wind from before has died down and the snow falls in delicate flakes undisturbed except from your footfalls. The world seems blanketed in a cold snow globe of silence.

“You know you had to walk back to my place anyway, right?” You finally break the silence. “Your truck is there, ya goof.”

He slips an unmittened hand into yours before saying, “Yeah, but I wanted to anyway.”

“Peggy told me about your hat and gloves.”

“Natasha took up sewing and knitting. She was good too; quick with her hands, I guess. She wanted to have a repair shop one day. Said she liked that being a seamstress almost always meant putting things back together and being a fixer.”

“That’s a really beautiful way to look at it. I managed to learn sewing pretty well but knitting I never mastered. Natasha must have been a special lady. I could only manage straight lines and barely that. There’s a graveyard of Frankenstein mittens lurking somewhere upstairs at my place.”

With that you earned what was becoming one of your favorite sounds; his booming laughter.  

James comes in at the promise of a hot toddy; as repayment for saving the day. The two of you are sat in front of the fire on your couch when, in a stroke of boldness, you pull his arm over your shoulder. Leaning into his side you can once again smell his cologne wafting off the warm skin from his neck; sweet amber mixing with the bourbon and cinnamon of the drinks and something deeper.

“Is this okay?”

He sighs a contented sound and nuzzles you closer into his soft side. “This is okay.”

[cyn-00]

Moreid one shot, 6 - "way past that"

Season 7, episode 20 "The company" (the one where Derek finally finds his cousin Cindi after years she had been missing but her family had no proof of her death. At the very end, when Derek, his sister Sarah, his aunt, Cindi and her son finally gather and hug)

We love some unrequested long ass but hopefully not boring fic. Basically a follow-up to the episode, definitely not one of my best works...

Also bad news: I've just started season 8 which is the one where Reid has that thing going on with Maeve, so A) I'm gonna be depressed and frustrated for a whole ass season + B) there probably won't be any Moreid inspo here and there so I'm sorry but I probably won't write fics during this one :( I could still do some throwbacks to older seasons though, I'll see what my big (?) creative (?) brain can do

Read it on AO3

-------------

Reid was watching the scene through the blinds of the room him and the rest of the team were, chatting and finally relaxing while reordering their things, ready to go home.

He could clearly see, even from far away, that Morgan had teary eyes - but they weren't tears of sadness, nor anger. They were ones of joy and relief. Derek's aunt was hugging Cindi's kid, Derek was talking with his sister Sarah.

The young genius was totally immersed. He was so moved and happy that Morgan could finally let go of all the rage and uncomfort he had been burying inside for the past days - to be fair, those feelings had been there for months - he didn't even realize he was lopsidedly smiling to himself, like an idiot.

Everyone was getting out of the room with their hands full of stuff.

"You better pick your things up cause I wanna go home and sleep, and I'm pretty sure everyone agrees with me when I say that we won't regret leaving you here..." Emily said to him, jokingly.

"Yes ma'am, we do agree." Rossi responded.

"Mh mh." Reid mumbled, without shifting his eyes an inch from the view, barely hearing what the others were saying.

JJ sighed, resigned to the fact that he would probably be in there for another 30 minutes. "Alright. Bye Spence!"

-

The room was now empty. Reid saw Morgan looking at the team leaving, like he was awakened and brought back to the real world.

His eyes finally met Spencer's for just a split second, and in that moment Spencer immediately stopped looking, like he had been caught doing something he shouldn't have been doing.

He coughed and clumsily stood up from the desk he was sitting on, starting to pick up his stuff with no specific order. Just to make it look like he had actually been doing something for the past 10 minutes, instead of watching Morgan like it was the most entertaining thing ever - it kinda was, to him. No matter the context.

Derek knew he had been looking all along. He simply didn't wanna look back at him, in the attempt to avoid drawing his sister's attention to Spencer as well.

Mission failed. 

"What you looking at?" Sarah asked after a few seconds of him being clearly distracted while she was talking.

Derek's eyes shifted back to her, raising his eyebrows and opening his mouth like he had something to say; but no valid excuse came out.

His sister turned around and saw it. She saw what had been distracting him for the past 5 minutes: Doctor Spencer Reid, sorting out his stuff in the other room. Now that the others had gone away leaving the doctor alone in there, there was nothing convincing enough Derek could say to dissuade her from gathering that he was looking at the pretty boy in the other room.

Reid looked up at the two for a second and waved at them, wearing his usual cute-kinda-awkward smile.

Sarah waved back, giggling at how geeky he was. "So...you gonna invite the guy over to dinner or something? Ever? In your lifetime?"

Derek sighed, still looking at Spencer. "I wish. It's not up to me, I don't think he'd be comfortable with that."

"C'mon why not? We've loved him since day one just like you did." she paused, recalling a memory she wasn't sure if sharing with her brother. She quickly decided on doing so.

"As a matter of fact, Desirée was the one who predicted something was up with you two just by the way you talked about him." she smirked.

"...I always talk about every member of my team. I talk about Penelope a lot. And Emily." Derek answered, frowning, like he took what his sister said as an accuse of some sort.

"Yeah, but that's different..." Sarah pointed out.

Derek didn't answer: she wasn't the first person telling him that he'd always talked about Spencer in a "different" way, since the beginning, when he hadn't even figured out his feelings for him yet. He'd come to the conclusion that he probably did that without even noticing.

There were a few seconds of silence - enough for her to notice that Derek had got back to looking at Spencer. She affectionately put a hand on his shoulder. "Come on. Go."

"I-I'm sorry sis, he's been trying to ignore me for the past two days on purpose cause I've been nervous all the time and I've been acting like a dick, honestly-"

"I know, I know, I imagined that. You owe him. We're fine." she gave him a kiss on the cheek and headed closer to her aunt and cousin, to intrude their conversation and give Derek a reason not to feel guilty about leaving her like that.

-

Morgan entered the room. Reid heard his footsteps but didn't - couldn't - turn around: he was stretching over the table to try and reach a pile of documents. He managed to pick it up and started to browse through the papers distractedly, while turning around to face him.

"You know, I was thinking that maybe-" He STARTED talking.

Derek cupped his boyfriend's face in his hands and kissed him impulsively, making Spencer breathe out a faint moan of surprise and chaotically put the files back on the desk right behind him. It took all of his physical strength and the remaining amount of attention he wasn't paying to that hot kiss not to just drop the files on the floor.

He wrapped his arms around Derek's waist and leaned closer. Without even thinking of how inappropriate that must have looked, his hands snaked under the other's t-shirt, lightly stroking his back.

The moment he felt Spencer's soft touch on his skin, Derek got goosebumps all over his body. He put a hand on the back of Reid's head, involuntarily messing his hair up, and started leaving quick kisses on his jaw and behind his ear. He knew that was a huge turn-on for him. Exactly the same way Spencer knew how huge of a turn-on was for Derek when he ran his fingers up and down his back - or abs; oh, the abs.

Spencer gasped, keeping his eyes shut. In the attempt of trying to stay on his feet, he put his hands behind him, trying to hold himself onto the edge of the desk.

Wrong move: his hands knocked off the pile of papers, spreading them all over the table and the floor. That was what - maybe luckily - interrupted the dynamic, which was clearly proceeding toward a not-suited-for-work direction.

Derek stopped teasing Spencer and rested his forehead on his, breathing heavily.

"...shit " Spencer whispered, chuckling.

"Maybe I should've closed the door." Derek said, shaking his head.

"And the blinds." Spencer added, nodding his chin toward Sarah, who immediately jerked her face the other way because she'd been caught peeking at them with the corner of her eye, from the lobby of the police dept. Derek snorted and shook his head - again.

Spencer sat on the desk, letting his feet wiggle 10 inches from the floor; still absent-mindedly looking at Derek's family through the blinds. He was sure that they had to get moving, but also didn't want one of the only moments of intimacy the two got during the day to end; even though said "moment of intimacy" eventually turned out to be Spencer yawning every 30 seconds, approximately.

Derek silently stared tilt-headed at his boyfriend with a smile printed on his face, for what seemed like an eternity, laying his eyes on everything they could reach: his gorgeous side profile; his slightly furrowed eyebrows; the golden curls that almost reached his shoulders; that absolutely nonsensical but all the same weirdly charming way he used to wear his wristwatch too loose over the unbuttoned cuff of his shirt, instead of beneath it like normal people; the collar of his wrinkled pinstripe button-down, too large to adhere properly to his slim neck. Derek rested his hand on the side of that neck of his, half entangled in his hair, caressing the very edge of his cutting jawline with a thumb.

"You know," Morgan interrupted the silence and Reid finally looked up at him with his big, brown eyes.

"Sarah asked me if I was gonna invite you to dinner one day."

Spencer smiled awkwardly and raised his brows, surprised "She did?". Derek nodded.

"Wow- I'm- I'm flattered..." he stuttered in response, half-heartedly.

"...but?" Derek got serious.

"There's no 'but', it's just- you know. I thought your family saw me as the weird and awkward kid, just like...well, everyone, really- which is totally true by the way I don't mean to play the victim or anything."

Derek laughed. "Yes, they do."

Reid frowned. Was there something he wasn't getting?

"But they love you like that."

Spencer looked away, smiling shyly. Derek cupped his jaw in one hand to make their looks meet again - he understood that Spencer loved it when he took his face like that by how he immediately gave him those eyes, every time. The adorable eyes. It worked like magic.

He bent over to whisper in his ear.

"I love you like that."

Spencer was already closing his eyes and melting in Derek's warmth, expecting one of his kisses. But Morgan wanted to tease him a little bit, so he backed away from him and walked toward the door with a smirk on his face, leaving there both Reid AND the mess of files they dropped on the floor.

"Wait!" Spencer squeaked when Derek was already on the threshold of the door.

"Nuh-huh pretty boy I ain't gonna help you with that mess. Besides: it's your fault, it's not like I pushed you or anything" he said jokingly, still wearing that smirk that made Spencer's whole body blush.

"Yeah- no, actually, it's not about that, though you could help me since we're already late and it IS kind of your fault- frankly though, it's totally your fault, what did you expect me to do? You were utterly over me, physically-"

"Baby. I was joking. What was it?" Derek interrupted the flood of words coming out of his mouth.

"Yeah sorry, uhm" he paused, his brain trying to start working again after crashing for a second at the word "baby".

He kept his eyes firm on Derek's face with his mouth open - though no words came out at all - fidgeting with his hands like he always did, not knowing what it meant to stay still. Derek raised his brows in a way that meant: "I'm listening...?".

"Why- why aren't you mad?" Spencer finally said, choosing the simplest and less mistakable way to say it.

Derek frowned. "Mad? At you? For wha- wait, did you do something I should be mad about?"

"Nonono not like that it's just, I haven't really talked to you in the past few days. And I should have been there for you with all that was going on."

"You WERE there. Just like anybody else."

"Exactly, and I should have done something more, instead I acted just like anybody else on the team, but I'm not anybody else otherwise this- us, we wouldn't make sense... right?" he waited hopeful for his boyfriend's confirmation, but his expression remained the same. "So I thought you would feel betrayed in some way, I don't know if you do feel like that and you're not telling me to not make me feel...guilty, but- but anyway I'm sorry. I'm really sorry that I acted like I don't have any responsibility to you."

"Kid" Derek said softly. "we're way past the whole 'I'm here for you if you wanna talk' thing. I know that you are, and I chose not to talk about it more than we were already doing on the job. We both bear a responsibility to each other and we always both respect that" he paused. "You worked on the case, you gave me space, you hugged me when I needed a hug. That's all that matters to me and you know it inside that big brain of yours."

Reid looked like he hadn't even heard half of the talk, gazing at him with heart eyes.

Morgan paused again, expecting some sort of answer, which never came. "What? One minute you're all sorry and the next you're looking at me like- like that." he raised his hand to point toward the face he was making. "What's up with you?" he asked jokingly after a few seconds of silence.

"So we're way past that uh?" Reid quoted him timidly, like he had to make it official.

"Waaay past that." Morgan answered with an eye-roll, playing along, knowing where that was going.

"So we're...serious. Aren't we?" he questioned rhetorically, biting his lip and looking down to fake-concentrate on fiddling with the hem of his sweater vest.

"Yes, genius boy, we're serious."

Spencer nodded shortly and turned around to hide his smile; finally deciding to - once again: clumsily - pick up the files and randomly stuff some of them in his satchel, while he kept the others in his hand. If he had done that with any criteria at all, they would have all fit in the bag: that was what Derek was thinking, looking at his messy boyfriend try to un-mess things up; wondering if maybe he really should've considered offering a hand.

-

They both finally got out of the room, 20 minutes later, but Derek's family was still there. He stopped walking and grabbed Spencer's arm to make him do the same.

"Imma wait for Hotch, I'll catch up in a minute."

"Alright" Spencer nodded.

"Yeah wait, first I gotta ask you one last thing..."

"...sure" Spencer squinted his eyes, pronouncing the word slowly. Derek looked a teeny tiny bit nervous, which was unusual, to say the least.

"Does your mom know? About...us? About me ?"

Spencer grinned knowingly. "Why are you even asking, you KNOW that I tell her everything."

"...so...? "

"So I've been telling her about you since the second I met you." he paused, giving him his sweet smile. "She knew where this was going before I did." By 'this' he clearly meant them.

Derek looked down at his feet, biting his bottom lip in the attempt to contain a chuckle.

Spencer wanted to kiss him. But they were in the main lobby, there was Sarah not so far: he didn't know if Derek would be okay with it.

He hesitated a second to look around and then gave him a quick peck at the corner of his lips, so quick nobody noticed. But as soon as he pulled away a little, Derek cupped his face and kissed him way deeper. In that moment, Reid understood that Morgan really didn't care about showing everyone that they were a thing. Not even his family. He was more than just not ashamed of it - he was proud.

Spencer could have gone hours kissing like that, but he stopped. "Alright- you're gonna make me drop the files again" he mumbled breathily against his lips, smiling.

Derek laughed and shook his head, finally letting Spencer go and following him with his gaze as he walked away.

-

He looked over to his sister: she was smirking. She had been looking at them all along. Nice.

Derek scratched the back of his neck and turned around, already regretting kissing Spencer in front of them: he could only imagine the amount of embarrassing questions expecting him at the next family dinner. To which he would also have to take Spencer with, at that point.

Hotch finally got out of an office where he had been talking with God knows who about God knows what for the whole time Morgan was with Reid. He always had to do the boring, bureaucratic stuff.

"Morgan. Have you been waiting for me this whole time?" he asked, in the most ironic tone he could pull off - which wasn't THAT clearly ironic.

"Yeah- no, actually, I was- nevermind. We good to go?"

"I was kidding. I know you were talking to Reid."

Derek nodded, looking at his feet, like talking to Reid was something to keep secret. Problem is, 'talking' wasn't all they'd been doing in the other room for 20 minutes.

Hotch frowned: he sensed something was wrong - mistakenly. "Is everything alright with you two?"

"...why are you asking? Should I know something?" Derek returned the frown. Apparently, that day people thought it was real fun to say confusing things.

Hotch sighed. "Reid wanted to apologize to you for a thing. He only hinted it to me but I can guess what he was talking about."

Derek breathed out, relieved. "Yeah. There was no need to apologize but you know how he's done. We're good." he answered, trying to hide a smile that said: we're REAL good.

"Thank God. When something is wrong between you two it's a mess." Hotch smirked with an eyebrow raised, using that same "ironic" tone from earlier, which came off as such only to the team because they knew him enough to resign to the fact that that was the most ironic it could ever get.

Derek snorted, smiling, without asking for an explanation: he knew exactly that the way the whole team functioned on the job got fucked up big time when there was tension between Spencer and him.

Hotch casually patted his shoulder. "Alright, let's get on the jet already. They're all probably asleep by now."

[covid19stories]

I think I'm gonna try to stick more with the positives. Obviously there's a lot of stress in my life right now - I work in theatre and, as you may have guessed, theatres can't really perform or rehearse, but I have the security of living with my parents, all my canceled productions have paid out, and I have a remote part time job that brings in some as well. 

But it's the thing we all have, right? Where there's suddenly this plethora of open time that I haven't had for a while. It's week three of social distancing/quarantine mode and I'm remembering the fact that apparently, in terms of development, it's healthy for children to get bored because it forces them to get creative. It's all about finding ways to fill the time that aren't just the same ways I would fill the time on my occasional day off. 

So here are the things I'm doing that I'm enjoying:

- Reading a disgusting amount. When I found out my local library was going to close indefinitely, I went, okay, well, maybe today is the day to hit the max (75). I think I ended up with sixty something. But it means I've been reading a lot - aiming to finish a book a day, have only missed one day for the past 10??? days or so. I like to read so much and having this amount of open time to do so is kind of mindblowing. 

- I started learning Russian??? I've been off my game for a few days now but I have four language apps pulled up. Cyrillic is hard as a script, though, because it's so close to English - there's н which looks like H but sounds like "n" and р which looks like P and sounds like "r." It's trippier than learning a language with our alphabet or learning a language with an entirely different script. 

- Been cooking more. When you work nights in theatre, it's pretty easy to get used to coming home and eating cereal or toast. Even when I have time home during the day, I generally cook lazily and (spoiled though it may be) take advantage of the leftovers my parents leave. The other day my dad and I made this incredible Indian meal with masoor dahl, cauliflower and eggplant, spinach, chapatis, and rice. It was deeply wholesome. Today I finished a book and at the back there was a recipe, so I just got up and made a burnt sugar syrup cake with maple icing and it was incredible!! 

- I've ended up cleaning more than I normally would. The best bit was I reorganized my bookshelf - taking knicknacks and junk off, clearing off the top so I can use that for more books, taking out books that I don't like/don't need anymore and replacing it with books I feel like represent me or I'm excited to read in the future. I'm extremely happy every time I look across the room and see it reordered. 

- Finally set up my drums again. I learned how to play drums senior year of high school but then dropped it throughout college - even when I came back in the summer, I couldn't get myself to sit back down and relearn the skills, which then combined with the guilt that I owned these instruments and didn't play them anymore. Guilt over shit like that feels pretty stupid, but there you go. But today I put everything in its place and started playing around again and it was cool. 

- Honestly, socializing. For one, I'm getting to be around my whole family - my lil sis is home from college and, because we're home all day every day, my schedule obviously aligns with my parents'. It's another theatre thing, where if I'm working at night and my parents are working during the day, it's nearly guaranteed I'll never see them. But there's also a lot of socializing with my friends as we all try to keep each other sane. My one friend organizes a weekly playreading group and we've been faithfully doing it virtually for the last couple weeks, I did an rpg with some pals today, and a good friend of mine and i have been watching shows together and live texting. One of my other friends has been tweeting out a Zoom invitation where anyone can join him to just chill, so sometimes I hop on there while in bed and chat between reading. It's like, these virtual options are always open to us but we're not necessarily always in  a position where we feel like we need to take advantage of them. 

That was a little long and felt more like a debrief than anything else, but it's definitely an accurate record of what a normal person in this moment is finding to fill the time and avoid getting sucked into the social media news hole of despair. 

[ephemeral-afterlight]

Day 6: Dragged Away

(But they won’t push us down.)

Whumptober 2019 Day 6: Dragged Away

Word Count: 1823

Relationships: Moxiety

Warnings: Attempted kidnapping, unsympathetic Patton, mildly violent language, rape mention

A/N: yeah... sorry this is late. i’m uploading this in the car, and i’m exhausted, but i had to get it up, so.

The sound of Virgil’s shoes slapping on the pavement is certainly something that can be relaxing, a way to lull someone into a sense of safety. Each patter is like a metronome, a beat to a song that walking creates. Every step echoes in the emptiness, the open darkness of a city abandoned at night, and Virgil absolutely hates it.

He hates it because he’s not even supposed to be here, isn’t supposed to be pushing through the aching in his calf muscles just to get home quicker. He tried to finish up at work quickly enough to take the bus like he always does, but there was a pretty big spill, and he has to stay behind and clean it up. It’s too late for buses now, too late for comfort, and it’s all Virgil can do to not take off in a sprint.

He’s trying, he really is, but he’s never liked walking long distances, and the fact that it’s night time and nobody is around makes it a thousand times worse. He just wants to go home and sleep, cuddle with Patton and forget his weariness, but there’s still a few blocks to go, so he trudges on.

And the footsteps are his only guide again. The footfalls, sound of the soles and their meeting with concrete. The way the soundwaves bounce against the cold stone walls, clash against brick and fall right back. It’s almost like a poem, ticking syllabic through cool night air. And it is night, almost 2 in the morning, and Virgil has a feeling that Patton is going to be awake waiting for him when he returns. He’s figuring things out, trying to sort his thoughts and compartmentalize the split between work life and home life, and then the echoes multiply. 

They’re almost identical in their timing, at first, so close to Virgil’s own pace that he doesn’t even notice. It’s only when Virgil speeds up to get across a driveway outlet that the stark contrast of the echoing thumps on pavement while his own feet are completely off the ground makes itself prominent in the forefront of his mind, brings a growing anxiety to his conscious thought. There’s somebody walking behind him, someone following him, and Virgil’s heart rate quickens as he speeds up very gradually so as not to alert whoever is behind him. He doesn’t want to turn around, to tip them off that he’s aware of their presence, because that could cause them to speed up the process. Is he about to get kidnapped?

And then the footfalls behind him gain speed, too, rise to match Virgil’s new rhythm, and he’s positive that they’re gonna try to hurt him. There’s no other explanation; he’s walking alone, in the middle of the night, in a nearly abandoned, dilapidated part of the city, and there’s someone behind him going at the exact same pace and making the same turns as he is. This is a kidnapper. Or a murderer. Oh god, he’s gonna die. He’s gonna die and he’ll never get to see Patton again, never get to listen to his favourite music, never eat that one really good chicken and rice meal from the restaurant across the street--

Virgil is stupid. He must be stupid, because he does something stupid. Like an absolute idiot, he risks a glance behind him, tries to look and commit his attacker’s face to memory, and the guy dressed completely in black is way closer than it sounded. Virgil’s heart stops, and his pace stutters, and the man is lunging forward to grab him.

Virgil tries to let out a scream when the assailant yanks back hard on his arms, painfully twists them behind his back to keep him immobile, but his mouth gets immediately muffled by the man’s other hand. He’s strong, somehow able to keep him in place with a single hand, and Virgil knows that his own skinny, weak self doesn’t stand a chance. 

He struggles and thrashes as he’s pulled from the road, tears brought to his eyes as the dim yellow glow of the streetlamps starts to fall further and further away. He can’t breathe, the pressure on his throat from the man’s arm restricting his airways, but the panic is setting in and that certainly doesn’t help.

And then the adrenaline kicks in, a harsh rush that’s like a breath of fresh air. His systems are flushed with a solution of fearlessness and fire, and everything feels so much clearer. He can see, and he can breathe, and years of hearing Roman and Logan’s stories as first responders (a police officer and paramedic respectively) gives him enough forethought to act quickly. He can’t wait, can’t drag this out. He has to do something before the panic fills up his lungs again like a black sludge, has to fight before he’s left weary and exhausted and… dead.

With a strangled cry that doesn’t go far from his lips, Virgil throws himself forward just enough, and then uses the momentum to swing the heel of his foot back and connect it with the man’s crotch. He lets out a strangled yell, one that dissolves into an angry whine, and Virgil takes advantage of his pain to rips his arms from the stranger’s grip and kick back again to put distance between them. He manages to get him in the dick a second time, which, under different circumstances would be literally the funniest thing he’s ever heard, but he can’t bring himself to find any humour in it while he’s still in danger of being kidnapped or killed.

Running towards the street again allows him a moment to process, to reorder his frantic, frenzied brain. He knows he’ll be fine as his foot first hits the road, because he was a champion when he ran track in high school, and he can outrun anyone if he just pretends that he’s in a competition. The grey buildings around him turn into bleachers, the pavement underneath him turns to blacktop, and the streetlamps morph into the familiar feeling of the sun beating down on his face. He sweats now, too, both from exertion and fear, and his body is just a vessel for quick transportation again.

He doesn’t remember much of what happened after that, can feel the yells of the sports fans ringing in his ears just the same as before, and when he realizes where he is, who he is, the familiar surroundings of his and Patton’s neighbourhood allow him to breathe a sigh of relief. He still isn’t really processing the whole experience well, and he’s sure he’s going to have probably a million panic attacks when the adrenaline rush has faded, but for now, he just pants hard, turns in the direction of his house, and runs. 

Bursting in the door and slamming it closed behind him gives Virgil an immeasurable satisfaction, borne from the almost victorious feeling of winning. He went through the ringer, rose up, and came out on top, just the same as when he used to run. He feels the same rush, the same jitteriness he used to get when he got first place in competitions. Virgil will freak out later, but for now, he's a winner, and he needs to tell Patton. 

"Virge, honey, you're so late coming home. Did something happen at wor-- ...Virgil? Why are you all sweaty?" Patton's sympathetic tone shifts into one of concern, a layer of worry embedded in his furrowed brows and slight frown. He rushes forward from the hallway to Virgil's side, gives him a once-over to check for any obvious injuries, and audibly frets while Virgil catches his breath. 

"I got-- almost got kidnapped, Pat, an' I-- I kicked him in the balls and ran away, it was awesome and-- and terrifying and I was s-so scared, I… it was so scary… I thought I was gonna d-die… I," Virgil whimpers, comes crashing from his high too quickly, and Patton is surging forward to gather his boyfriend in his arms. Virgil shudders at the touch, flinches for a split second, and then relaxes. His embrace is so warm, brings the tears out of his eyes with soft reassurances, and Virgil is sobbing. The tears soak into Patton's pajama shirt, bleed through to touch his skin, and he's rubbing Virgil's back soothingly. 

"Oh, Virgil, honey, I'm so sorry it happened like that. It's okay, it's over now," Patton murmurs. He guides Virgil's head to rest on his shoulder gently, cards through his hair with a muted pressure. It's always worked and a grounding technique, something that they've discussed and employed many times in the past, and Virgil feels touched that he's thinking of that even now.

"It must have been so scary, sweetie. I'm sorry. It… could have been scarier, y'know. You could've… been shot, or stabbed," Patton muses, and although Virgil understands that he's just trying to help in his own misguided way, his words only cause the anxiety to rear its ugly head once more. Virgil hums shakily, swallows around his residual fear to clear the vice around his neck, and clutches onto Patton's shirt. 

"Uh… yeah, Pat, but that… that isn't really helping right now. Maybe we can just… I don't know, watch a movie? I-- I need to take my mind off of this," Virgil mumbles into Patton's shoulder, sniffs as more tears leak over his lashes. 

"Yeah, I mean… you could've gotten electrocuted, or got your head bashed into the concrete, or maybe even got raped, poor thing," Patton continues, keeps talking as if he didn't even hear Virgil's request, and Virgil's brows pull together. The words send a wave of nausea rolling through him, force a gag out of him that he somehow manages to keep at bay. Patton's hand slowly comes up to rest on the back of Virgil's neck, a gesture of reassurance even as he starts squeezing, clutching a little too tight. "Honestly, it's a shame… I should've told them to do whatever they wanted with you, but you have to go and make things difficult, don't you, huh?"

And before Virgil can process this, before he can feel his heart leap into his throat and pull away, there's a sharp pain in his neck where Patton's hand resides. His muscles feel tired, so tired, and his knees give out within seconds. Patton manages to catch him, gently lowers him to the ground, and Virgil's head is screaming. He can only lay there, bore a terrified stare into his boyfriend, and watch and a spectator to the unknown. More tears spring to his eyes, and a scream tries to build in his dormant throat, and his fingers can't even twitch to move. Patton sighs as he picks up Virgil by the feet and starts dragging him towards the basement door, and Virgil's been knocked down to last place in the rankings.

[linerwriter]

Lisianthus

I’m alive! And here with a short fic about Mother’s Day! (although it’s not the happiest thing in the world). Sorry I’ve been gone for so long, school has been pretty rough (damn you physics), but I’m finally back!

I originally had an entirely different direction for this, but then I thought about Wild and his situation, and then I searched up flower meanings, and this is what turned out. It’s not my best work in the world (pacing could definitely be better), but I tried my best to get something out for today.

For reference: the lisianthus flower is a flower that represents appreciation, gratitude and charisma, and is used to say ‘thank you’ to the dead. I thought it fit.

Word count: 1367. For the @linkeduniverse AU (haven’t done that in a while). Enjoy!

“Wild? You doing okay, pup?”

They were, amazingly enough, in Twilight’s Hyrule, back in Ordon Village. They were welcomed back relatively well, although everyone kinda got creeped out by Ilia. Twilight put up with her, but even their most oblivious member could tell he was uncomfortable.

Wild tore his sad eyes away from the scene in front of them, instantly putting on a bright smile in the hopes it would fool Twilight. It did not.

Twilight raised an eyebrow and sent his friend a deadpan look, “You’re not okay. What’s going on?”

Wild’s shoulders slumped and he looked away, pointing toward what he was watching. In front of him were a mother and her child, handing her parent a flower. Twilight’s eyes blinked in surprise, “That’s just Uli and Colin, nothing too special.”

Why is he giving her a flower?

Twilight blinked again, his brow creasing with worry, “It’s Mother’s Day. You don’t have that in your Hyrule?”

Wild was pensive for a couple of minutes, searching through his sporadic memory. Eventually, he shook his head, I can’t remember.

Twilight’s eyes aged with sympathy, “Come on, let’s get back before Time yells at me.”

Wild acquiesced silently, his head nodding halfheartedly. Together, they walked back to Twilight’s house, their footsteps seeming to echo in spite of the plush grass. The entire time, Twilight witnessed his friend crawl further and further into himself, his shoulders rising up to his ears to make himself smaller.

“Wild? Do you want to talk about it?”

Wild stopped as a shadow fell over him. “I don’t know.” And he continued walking.

That experience stayed with Wild for a long time despite how often he denied it. No one besides Twilight knew the cause of Wild’s sudden funk, but it stayed until they reached his Hyrule once more, where he promptly teleported them to Hateno and took off toward the scientist.

The others made to go after him, but Twilight had an inkling of an idea of why he went alone. “He’ll be back soon.” He promised, staring after Wild as he ascended the mountain.

“And how long will that take?” Legend snapped, crossing his arms.

“As long as he needs.”

“Do you know what’s bothering him, Twilight?” Wind asked innocently.

Twilight nodded. Wind gasped, “Can you tell us?”

To their surprise, Twilight shook his head. Hyrule pouted, “Why not?”

“Betrayal of trust,” Twilight took off toward Wild’s house, “Now, aren’t you coming?”

By the time Wild came back, it was dark out and the only one up was Twilight. When the owner of the house dragged his feet into the door, Twilight held out the food Four had made (surprisingly, Four wasn’t the worst cook in the world, although Wild’s was much better) and an inquiring gaze. Wild took the food without comment and Twilight brought a book out and all was silent.

“I found out where my mom was buried.”

Twilight raised his head from the riveting paragraph he was reading about flower meanings. “Oh?”

“I would like to visit her.”

“That’s fine by me.” For some reason, Wild seemed nervous. “Would you like me to come with?”

“Please.”

The answer came out slightly desperate yet forced, like Wild had been trying to tug it down into his being without any luck. Twilight searched the twitching frame of the boy, “Wild?”

“I’m scared,” The admission burst out of Wild, “Is it fine for me to do this? I don’t even remember her, what if someone objects to it?”

“Cub,” Twilight stood up and crouched down next to Wild, “Don’t worry, it’s gonna be fine. I’ve visited my mom before and I have no recollection of her either.”

“But that’s just it!”

“What is?”

“I did know her, but I forgot her!”

“And that’s okay,” Twilight soothed, “If I know anything about good mothers, it’s that they don’t blame their children for anything. And I think your mother was a good mother.”

Wild digested that for a couple seconds. “Can we bring her flowers?”

“Of course we can.”

“What type?”

Twilight glanced at his book, with the page on lisianthus bared to the world. “I have an idea.”

Wild stared from the top of the hill and clutched the bouquet, “I don’t think I can do this.”

Twilight turned and grasped his descendant by the shoulders, “It’s gonna be alright, Wild. Just breathe. I’ll be there the entire time, and we can leave whenever you want.”

“Can’t we leave now?” Wild asked desperately.

“Do you want to?”

Wild thought for a moment before sighing, “Not really, no.”

“Then you can do this,” Twilight’s eyes softened, “Don’t worry, I’ll be there right beside you. I won’t tell anyone what happens unless you want me to. What happens here stays between us.”

Wild took in a great puff of air then nodded his head, a determined gleam reflected in his eyes. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

The two walked down the hill, disturbing the flora and animals as they headed to the small cluster of engraved stones.

“Hi, Mom,” Wild started, “I don’t know if you remember me. You probably do, all things considered, but I don’t, so I asked anyway. I don’t really know you that well, the only thing I can recall is the, uh, the day we took that picture, you know, with Dad and Aria? But, um, but from it, I remember the way you hugged me,” Wild started to get choked up, “A-and the way you’d whisper in my ear to just stay still, but then Aria would get excited and then you would have to reorder everything again.” A sob came unwillingly out of his throat, “A-and I just miss you, you know? I have one memory with you, that’s it. Nothing. So why am I feeling this way?” His sob transformed into tears.

Immediately, Twilight reached out and placed his hand on the younger man’s arm in support. Through the shaking of his shoulders, Wild’s faint voice reached out, “I didn’t know about Mother’s Day or appreciating mothers before this, I found out from my friend Twilight. You’d like Twilight, he’s funny and knows about farms, so he’d make your life easier. Now that I think about it, you’d probably like the others, too, ‘cause that’s just who you are.” He took a second to calm down, then continued.

“I think I loved you. I hope I did.” He wiped at his eyes then laughed humorlessly, “I’d be a pretty crappy son if I didn’t.” His words seemed to fail him. “I just- I just wanted to say thank you, for everything you did. After I got the sword, I didn’t visit you as much, and I know that hurt you, but you still loved me anyway.” More tears fell as he whispered, “I’m sorry, Mom. I’m so, so sorry.”

Throughout it all, Twilight’s presence comforted him. Wild continued to talk for hours, longer than he had ever before, about anything and everything. It didn’t matter if it had happened a while ago, or if it had happened right then, everything was important. When he felt content with what he had said, the sun was starting to set and it had gotten cold.

“Feeling better?” Twilight asked when Wild finally stood up from where he was crouched.

Wild nodded, “A little, yeah. It was weird,” He looked toward his friend, “When I was talking to her, my memories came back, of her and my family. I found out she was a florist,” He smiled wistfully, “Guess that’s where my love of nature comes from.”

Twilight put his arm around the shorter man’s shoulders, “Guess it is.” He looked toward Wild out of the corner of his eyes, “She’d be proud of you, you know.”

Wild stared at the ground, “You think so?”

“I know so.” That caused Wild to look up at Twilight’s smiling face and grin back, “Wherever she is, she’s so incredibly proud and happy of who you’ve become. I know I am.”

Wild’s eyes were lidded as his grin softened into a gentle curve. “Thank you.”

“No problem, cub. Now, let’s go home.”

All the while, a lisianthus looked on, a comfort for the fallen.

[portraitoftheoddity]

Psychologically, I don’t handle mess well. It sends my anxiety into overdrive (I associate messiness in my living space with my major depressive episodes, and when things get slovenly my brain is like OH HELL NO WE ARE NOT DOING THAT SHIT AGAIN MY FRIEND). So I stress clean a lot, and keep my apartment very tidy because that makes it a soothing refuge for me. 

Unfortunately, right now I am in the process of painting my kitchen cabinets, which has necessitated dismantling all the drawers and cabinet doors, spreading them all over the kitchen/living area, and emptying and relocating all the contents of said drawers and cabinets wherever the fuck else in the apartment there’s space, and piling things up off the floor so I have room to paint since I’m gonna be stuck painting all this shit inside and then having to leave it there to cure for days.  

My home looks like a bomb composed of carpentry and kitchenware went off.

I am.... having some difficulty with this right now.

The one upshot is I FINALLY got my air conditioner replaced in the wall, which means I was able to move my bookcase back (it’s been dragged away from the wall to let the technicians have easier access to the AC, which has been broken for nearly 2 months), so that now being in its proper place a) has given me ONE CORNER of my apartment that looks more tidy than it did before, and b) gave me the opportunity to obsessively reorder all my books because I have to feel like I have SOME cleanliness and control or I’m gonna yeet myself off the balcony. 

[sarcasticbabywhispererjess]

The movie “Secret Obsession” opens with the main character Jennifer being chased through a rest stop bathroom by a knife wielding maniac. She escapes out into the rain (very dramatic), gets hit by a car and is subsequently brought to the hospital. 

The following happens in the hallway of the hospital and OR...

Bagging patient randomly off and on.

“She’s going into v-fib.” (closed captioning says v-tach)

No compressions are started.

“She’s unstable.” (no shit)

No one starts compressions… way to fail ACLS step 1. Get on the chest!

“We need to start compressions.” Yes, please!

No one actually starts compressions, but someone does listen to her with a stethoscope.

“Miss can you hear me?” She’s in v-fib and you’re not doing compressions, her brain isn’t being perfused… she ain’t gonna answer you, doc.

“She’s unresponsive.” Ya think?

“I’m losing a pulse.” She’s been in v-fib, but had a pulse this whole time? I think your monitor is faulty. Also, why start compressions if there’s a pulse… not that they have done any compressions so far.

Still no compressions.

Shocks with 300 joules… with paddles that we don’t ever use anymore. (You don’t shock with 300 joules on any defibrillators, 120-200 on biphasic, or 360 on monophasic… yes I looked this up.)

“Bradycardia. 30… 90/50.”

Patient is in an organized rhythm and has a pretty good BP.

“Charge to 360”  What?! Why?! Shocks her again. 

WTF?! Why did you shock her? You don’t shock bradycardia.

“Get another amp of epi”… shocks again. 

That was three shocks in like a minute… never any compressions.

Pulse is now 75… they call it a success and say they can start surgery.

That was a DISASTER of a code. I get that it’s a movie, but codes are exciting when you follow actual ACLS guidelines (less defibrillating though), they didn’t need to do this. Plus, just edit and reorder some of those lines and it would have made more sense. Also... 

DO SOME FUCKING COMPRESSIONS!

Ok, below I continue with a play by play and commentary on the rest of the movie... warning, spoilers ahead.

Jennifer is in a hospital bed, extubated after surgery, but hadn’t regained consciousness after surgery. No, we don’t do that. 

Leg is in a brace and sling. Huh? Why?

Has Coban, but no gauze wrapped around her head like a headband (not sure where her injury is… somewhere near her hippocampus since that is where her brain injury is according to the doctor when he is explaining about how her memory is going to be affected by her brain injury) and random pieces of white tape on her nose and fingers. ???

Jennifer is in the hospital for several weeks it seems after the montage of memory card games and learning to push her own wheelchair. All of her facial abrasions are healed as she’s being discharged which also denotes the passing of time. I’m not quite sure why they kept her so long. 

She is standing at the counter and is told by the nurse discharging her (who also was there the night she was admitted) that her CT results came back and is given a vague update. Nurse gives her prescription bags… I mean, I guess it’s a nurse, she’s not wearing a badge but is wearing a stethoscope around her neck  (confirmed later, she’s a nurse). She gives Jenn a cane to walk with when she gets home… 2-3mins a day (That’s like no time at all). Jenn is given no instruction of how to use it, I’ve only ever seen her use a wheelchair.

Jennifer is sent home with a wheelchair. Her leg brace is gone. So can she not walk because of her brain injury, not her leg injury?

Man, this nurse works a lot… she seems to be there every day/night. And she’s in charge of follow-up calls/appointments. They’re in California, so at least she probably makes pretty good money since she runs the whole damn hospital.

OK, cane/wheelchair is because of her leg. Why the fuck doesn’t she just have crutches? That’s dumb. I guess it’s to make her more helpless.

God damn, her skin is so nice. 

Russell and Jenn start to get intimate, Jenn has a scary memory flash and rebukes his advances. Russell doesn’t take it well. He roughly grabs her arm. He starts talking about how much he has done for her and how he’s her husband (is he though?), so he deserves better. Twat. Jenn is freaked out both by her memory and Russell’s behavior, but just turns off the light, rolls over away from him, and goes to bed. I would have left. 

Damn, nurse Masters is still at work? She literally works 24/7 in this ED. Jenn still has an active chart? There are doctor’s notes in it? This place hasn’t switched to EMR yet? But they have high res security cameras that hospital security can pull up and email files within minutes? Impressive. Do a lot of crimes happen in this hospital? So those are their priorities? Weird.

Wtf is a heritage tattoo? That’s how the detective figured out her maiden name? Seems far fetched, but I’m not looking it up.

The detective enters Jennifer’s home that she shared with her parents according to records… and he keeps touching things without gloves on. You’re a shit detective, dude. How have her parents been dead this whole time and no one has looked for them? They didn’t have jobs? Were they hermits?

Russell leaves and Jenn hears a lock sound from the bedroom door. She jiggles the door handle and can’t get it open, “Did he just lock it?” Well he didn’t unlock it ya dumb bitch.  Well apparently she was some kind of criminal in her past life, so she can open locks with a bobby pin. Really? The password on Russell’s computer is Jennifer’s maiden name. FFS. This is the most unrealistic thing in the movie. 

Why would he cut the cord for the internet? Just to be dramatic. He could just as easily have just unplugged the cord and taken it with him. Did he not want to use the internet anymore either? Anyway, he planned far ahead enough to disable the internet just in case she got into the computer, but didn’t delete all the pictures pre-photoshopping off his computer? Idiot.

Who just swallows a pill that someone puts in their mouth just because they also forced water into your mouth? You’re not a dog, Jennifer. 

Russell uses a chain and lock that he happens to have in his pocket to chain her to the bed. Pretty sure she can get that chain off of her ankle if she wanted to. It’s not that tight.

Oh my goodness, nurse Masters isn’t at work! Russell is super weird to her and then speeds away from the store where he bought lye.

The chain is much tighter suddenly… but loose enough that Jenn could get it off. Ok, wtf is wrong with her leg… she can’t seem to straighten it from like 30 degrees… they should’ve kept that brace on her from the beginning of the movie and also done more ROM exercises with her while she was in the hospital for all those weeks. She apparently used to be some kind of medic? Duct tape as an ace bandage ankle wrap? Probably not the most effective, but could be worse. Though I imagine she’d only have some soft tissue injury from that chain, I don’t know if she needs to wrap her ankle.

Jenn gets into the garage where she acts like it smells bad.. like a dead body, maybe? She hides in her car that is in the garage when fake Russell gets home. He also acts like the garage reeks. Why does he open the trunk to see the real Russell’s dead body? Like, he knows that it’s in there and he could already smell the decomposing body… he just wanted a better whiff? Also, why hasn’t he buried the body yet? He buried that witness the day he killed him. Well, semi-buried… it was a really shallow grave that Jenn tripped onto and touched the dude’s hand.  Honestly, he did a piss-poor job at hiding the body. Also, now that I’m thinking about it, real Russell’s body isn’t very decomposed for having been in the trunk of a car in a hot garage for several weeks (unless the garage has A/C, but there would still be a lot more rotting of the flesh after such a long time). Jennifer’s parents bodies decomp was much more progressed even though it seems they’ve all been dead the same amount of times.

The detective is at “their” house, he knows Russell isn’t Russell and there’s something nefarious afoot. This detective needs to go back to detective school. Stop touching potential evidence without gloves on. Why would fake Russell just cover up an old sign that has his actual last name on it? Just get a new sign, you nut job. Well, the shitty detective isn’t aware of his surroundings and doesn’t have his gun drawn, so of course fake Russell/Ryan is able to sneak up behind him and hit him over the head. He’s dead… actually probably just unconscious in an ice chest since fake Russell is only good at killing people most of the time. Also, I have a feeling we’re going to need the detective later to help save Jenn.

Uh oh, glasses are off… I guess he’s not Russell anymore. He’s crazy, obsessive Ryan.

Yes, take time to watch that video on your phone, Jenn… get sentimental while you’re trying to run for your life. 

Why is this dude so hyper focused on this chick? He’s hot. He could have his pick of plenty of girls. I suppose it’s hard to think in rational/logical terms with a sociopath no matter what he looks like. 

Oh good… he’s doing the villain speech where he explains his backstory. Apparently he had to light a single taper for it. I have a feeling the candlestick holder might come into play later… in Jennifer’s benefit. No, wait... he left the lighter and tied her up with flammable rope.  But she knocked it on the floor… moron.

Oh good, the detective is alive. He’ll save them both even if he’s also an idiot. Since all women need saving. 

Wait, she got herself out. Why hit him with the vase? The solid metal candle holder would’ve been a better choice. Solid work falling down the stairs, Jenn

The detective is out of the ice chest. And he’s using the Babe from Kill Bill incentive… yelling at himself to make his brain/muscles work. He at the very least has a concussion/TBI from being knocked unconscious, yelling at yourself doesn’t fix that.

Jennifer! Why are you going into the woods? You have his keys and there are so many cars on the property, you probably have a key that will work on at least one of them. Even if you didn’t have the keys, if you can pick a lock, can’t you hotwire a car too?  Why do you think you’d get better signal in the mother fucking woods? Yes, try to hit him with a heavy log that you can barely lift. You’ll get good momentum and swing. Just use one of those rocks you just threw to distract him. Idiot.

Ok, she shot fake Russell/Ryan in the back while he was wrestling with the detective. The first shot was fairly high in the chest and had a pretty good chance of hitting his lung or something important, but he’s still able to come at her. Her second shot got him in the upper right abdomen, so probably the liver and he just goes down... dead. FFS. At least have shot him in the heart area, that would’ve been slightly more believable. Oh well, I guess that’s that. A little follow up with the detective and Jenn. She’s moving back to San Jose (hopefully she’s getting a new place since her parents were murdered in her old house) and the detective is moving to AZ even though he never found his daughter that had gone missing as a child many years ago (a part of his backstory that brought nothing to the story and was never resolved).

Guys, this was not a great movie. I did kind of enjoy tearing it apart though.