#the one in the middle of the pile is called bambi

[cotton-glass]

hey so uh

it's my birthday today(!!) and i've been having a pretty stressful time lately with uni and accommodation, so if you wanna help me get a really cute scarf to deal with the cold(shipping is so expensive) and support artists feel free to drop me a ko-fi

also. have two(2) cat pictures

[hxseok-honee]

atlas heart || part 37

a/n : uhm,,, so this was 20 pages long,,,, whoops -- hope you enjoy the pain!

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tag list!! [closed]

@deepseavibez @siredjoonie @kawaii-desv @knadiuniverse @anxious-reading @catbugsugarpea @cahowlkook @amoreguk @taekookandyoongi @nogitsune-sama @whitetshirtsrus @gustavkonrad @lilacdreams-00 @seungkwanismyaesthetic @mochiteddybear @cosmicdaylight @helpitskpop @lovetootie2x @unnoticeableparadox @applejuice218 @amicalostgirl @bad-idea-personified @moralita76 @yoongiscrackhead @thebleuprince @jooniesmind @incredibleella @missbowkimjinju @marifujioka @evil-ian @uqhgood @milky-way-bitch @yellohoshi @agust-suck-my-d @okaysoplshelpme @cutehoshii @dreamcatcherjiah @butterflylion @thesunisup-theskyisblue @thealexalcala​  @yoonjibby​ @baepsaekid​ @surviving-in-neverland​ @blaisezabini​ @melswolf​ @michiiedreamer​ @minimochimin @ebeanz​ @bts-bambi​ @sleepyje0n​

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“Jimin… psst-- Jimin, wake up--”

“Wake up, motherfucker!” Jimin’s eyes fly open right before he’s shutting them again, unable to cover his face in time to block the throw pillow that’s being launched at him. It falls to his lap when he sits up, and Jungkook chuckles in the doorway.

“Y/n’s been in here for fifteen minutes, trying to be nice and soft about waking you up, but you sleep like the dead. We’re gonna miss our ride at this rate.” Jimin blinks the sleep from his eyes as he focuses in on the girl that’s kneeling next to him on the bed. She’s nodding along as Jungkook speaks, and even in his half-awake state, Jimin finds her insufferably cute. He also notices that she’s fully dressed and seemingly ready to leave, her backpack by the door.

“What time is it?” His voice is groggy, but the yell he lets out when Hoseok appears suddenly at the door, disheveled and angry, is crystal clear. It looks like the Slytherin’s also just woken up, which is bad news for someone who’s yet to see Hoseok’s infamous ‘morning temper’.

“It’s almost 4:30 in the fucking morning, that’s what time it is. Our ride gets here at 5 -- I’m leaving whether you’re ready or not.” He disappears then, dragging a fearful Jungkook with him back to their room to pack their bags. Y/n turns from the doorway, settling back on her heels as she chuckles awkwardly.

“He’s just really excited to see Yoongi…”

--

When a minivan fit for a soccer mom with 4 kids screeches to a halt in front of the house, Jimin has to rub at his eyes to make sure he’s seeing things correctly. At the wheel sits Jin, an alarming amount of excitement in his eyes as he chugs coffee from what’s less of a cup and more of a vase with a lid. In the passenger’s seat is Namjoon, clinging to his seatbelt for dear life, and behind him are Taehyung and Yoongi, the Slytherin scooting into the middle so Jungkook can pull the end seat down and squeeze into the back row.

He waves Y/n in, and she pulls a stunned Jimin into the back with them. When the end seat locks back into place, Hoseok is throwing himself into it, wrapping himself around Yoongi once the door is closed. His boyfriend smiles with contentment, and even half-asleep, Jimin can appreciate the quiet happiness they share.

Jin slams his concerningly large coffee cup, now empty, down into the middle console and lets out a roar of energy.

“Next stop, Quidditch World Cup!” Pressing down on the gas hard enough that Y/n actually feels the tires squeal against the pavement before starting to turn, Jin takes off, rounding the rest of the massive courtyard before flying back down the winding driveway. Her hand reaches for Jimin’s on instinct, and if she wasn’t squeezing so hard, he might have blushed.

“What’re the chances of us dying before we even get there?” Jimin chuckles at her question, cutting himself short when the car slides into traffic much too recklessly, so he just hums.

“Probably much higher than you want me to admit--”

“Hey, who has my road snacks? I’ve got such a hankering for one of those cinnamon roll thingies--” Jin reaches blindly back into the middle row, searching for the bag of food on Taehyung’s lap.

“Both hands on the wheel!” It seems the entire car’s in agreement, because Jin just returns to his previous position, a small whine leaving him.

“Alright, alright, you big babies. Namjoon -- feed me, buddy.” The Ravenclaw groans loudly, and for a moment Jimin can’t believe he’d missed all these idiots while he was away.

--

When Jin pulls into the campground for the World Cup, they’re all gasping as they take in the scene around them. The arena’s unbelievably massive, towering over them in the distance. The sea of people is endless, crowded beyond belief with spectators and traveling merchants preparing for tomorrow’s match. Following Yoongi’s directions until they manage to find the plot of land his parents had reserved for them, Jin pulls off into the treeline and puts the car in park.

The group stumbles from the vehicle, groaning and stretching, shaking off the anxiety of entrusting Jin with their lives for hours. It’s a little past 11am, enough time for them to set up before lunch. Y/n follows Jimin into the spacious area, admiring the excited chaos of the enormous campground around them. She can hear Jin mumbling a spell under his breath to shrink the car and put it in his pocket, followed almost immediately by Jungkook excitedly asking if he can 'do that with a house -- or Hogwarts!'

Jimin takes her hand, and for a second, she thinks that maybe he’s making a move on her, something that leaves her embarrassingly hopeful. But all he does is pull her close to him, pointing at Yoongi with his other hand. The Slytherin is pulling a tiny tent out of his own pocket and setting it on the ground in the middle of their plot of land. Y/n doesn’t even see Yoongi utter a spell before the tent is growing to full size, and she can only imagine that the inside has been bewitched to fit all 8 of them -- something else that Yoongi’s done without speaking.

“Nonverbal magic?” It slips out without her thinking, and Yoongi hears it, glancing at her and becoming visibly shy under her curious gaze. He nods, pointing back at Hoseok, whose attention is caught trying to convince Jungkook not to try shrinking himself with Jin’s spell.

“We both know it -- most Slytherins do, actually… should I call it a defense mechanism? We don’t like to let people know what we’re thinking.”

“It’s pretty fascinating, if you think about it.” It comes from Namjoon, where he and Tae are unpacking not too far away. “Even in class, Yoongi would always practice nonverbally -- he’d get in trouble for it, too.” The Slytherin shrugs as if performing nonverbal magic isn’t difficult for most people unless the caster is under incredible distress.

“What can I say? A habit’s a habit. I haven’t used verbal magic in years -- it’s just more comfortable this way.” He ducks into the tent then, poking his head out and waving them in once he’s checked the quality of his adjustments to their living space for the next couple days.

They all head inside, Y/n looking around in awe when she sees just how big it is. There’s a section of bunk beds on the far side of the room, and the rest is filled with endlessly cozy spaces -- couches and cushions, corners piled high with blankets and pillows. There’s a small kitchenette in the corner, which Jin makes a beeline for in order to 'preserve his perishables'. Jimin shakes his head at the scene, always amused by the depth of the Hufflepuff’s stomach.

Jungkook pulls Y/n to one of the couches, where they collapse on it in a sibling pile that Jimin’s gotten used to seeing over the last 24 hours. It doesn’t stop the rest of the group (sans Hoseok, of course) from gawking at the pair, everyone unused to seeing the dynamic that’s been essentially nonexistent at Hogwarts. They don’t even notice, Y/n looking up at Jungkook with emotional eyes.

“I can’t believe I have friends to share this with.” She doesn’t realize the group is listening, and they all feel simultaneously touched and saddened by her words. Jungkook only ruffles her hair fondly.

“Get used to it, kid -- things are looking up for us.” It’s then that Jungkook happens to glance up, catching Taehyung’s gaze and seeing glossy tears in the boy’s eyes. Looking around, he notes that everyone’s got a similar expression, and he wonders what they must think of Y/n -- of the girl they don’t know enough about to understand her sentiments. He also wonders why they seem so moved by her words.

The awkward moment’s cut short by Namjoon clearing his throat. He points toward Jin, who’s standing by the fridge.

“We have enough food in there to feed us for a week, but Jin said it’s all ‘snacks’, so it looks like we have to go buy lunch.” Everyone nods, accepting that Jin would probably bite them before letting them into the kitchenette, and they start heading back out into the campground.

--

By the time night’s fallen, they’re all exhausted and a bit giddy. It’s almost 10, the effects of waking up at 4am weighing down on the group as they sit together in front of their tent. Hoseok and Yoongi had set up a small fire for them to gather around, Jimin playing music quietly from the small speaker Tae had packed as they talk amongst themselves.

Namjoon leans against a decently sized pile of rocks, reading quietly with the light from the fire. Y/n suspects he’s not actually reading, having caught his smile every time someone had cracked a lame joke, but she doesn’t call him on it. He looks peaceful there, in his quiet corner. Yoongi and Hoseok sit together on one side of the fire, whispering to each other and smiling about things only they know. Jungkook, Tae, and Jin are huddled, having a small argument about some of the merchandise being sold by the traveling shops that are set up around the campground.

Y/n sits with Jimin, watching the group and jokingly judging Jimin’s music taste as he scrolls through his phone. They’re sitting awfully close together, and Jimin thinks in the back of his mind that they must look about as cozy as Yoongi and Hoseok do -- that thought brings him much more joy than it should.

Despite the endless chatter and liveliness of the campground, the night starts to wind down, the sky clouding over in a way that makes it seem darker than it already is. It’s a perfectly good time for everyone to head to bed, but the chaotic trio has apparently decided to escalate their quarrel, the three of them jumping up at the same time.

“We’re going to check out some stuff -- it’s important!” Jungkook calls out to the rest of the group right before disappearing into the crowd with Jin and Tae. Namjoon promptly shuts his book, standing with a groan and heading in the direction they’d just gone. He offers them a shrug as an explanation.

“Someone needs to keep an eye on them.” He’s gone soon, leaving Jimin and Y/n to make awkward eye contact with Hoseok and Yoongi. Y/n locks eyes with Hoseok, and Jimin gets the strange feeling, from the way Hoseok’s eyes widen and then narrow suspiciously, that they’re communicating telepathically. The Slytherin shakes his head subtly, and then again a little more forcefully, before sighing heavily and rising to his feet. Holding his hand out, he helps Yoongi -- who looks as confused as Jimin feels -- to his feet before pointing noncommittally in the same direction their friends had gone.

“Apparently, I’m hungry enough to go searching for a snack, even though we have snacks in the tent.” Yoongi smirks at the clear annoyance in Hoseok’s voice, tugging him toward the crowd.

“Come on -- let’s go find a tree to make out under.” Immediately, Hoseok’s gaze becomes one of mischievous excitement, and he practically skips after the shorter boy into the distance. Jimin makes a noise of disgust, mirrored by Y/n’s expression.

Jimin only properly registers that they’re alone when his phone automatically starts playing a slower song -- rather, he properly registers that Y/n had asked Hoseok to leave them alone. Turning to her suddenly as if for an explanation, he finds that she’s staring into the fire with the intensity of someone who’s very socially awkward. He can’t help the breath of laughter that leaves him, one that becomes real laughter when she glares at him.

“You look like you just realized the consequences of your actions.” Her jaw drops, and she pushes at his shoulder, affronted.

“Sue me for wanting to spend time alone with you!” Immediately, she’s hiding her face in her hands, groaning. She wonders if maybe -- if she wishes for it enough -- the ground will just open up around her and swallow her whole. Her ears feel like they’re being set on fire when she hears Jimin’s laughter ringing through the air, and she hates that she loves the sound anyway.

“When are you just going to admit that you’re in love with me, Y/n? I promise I won’t laugh.” She mumbles something into her hands, and it sounds suspiciously like ‘you’re already laughing’. Jimin tugs at her wrist, dragging her out from her hiding spot and forcing her to look at him.

“How about we make a deal?” Y/n sends him another glare, but it’s her pout that catches his attention and drives him to the brink of insanity. “We can say it together -- count to three and admit how crazy we are about each other at the same time.” Y/n rolls her eyes and snatches her wrist from his hold, turning back to the fire, which has basically died down completely by now.

“Stop messing around, you big dork.” Jimin holds his hand to his chest and gasps.

“I have never been so serious about something in my life as I am about this.” He keeps talking, a dramatic monologue about his integrity, but something triggers the alarm bells in the back of her head -- the same alarm bells that have kept her alive up to this point -- and she’s immediately distracted.

Glancing around, she finds that nothing’s changed in their surroundings -- families and groups of friends still celebrate the start of the World Cup, the chaos of thousands of people in one place never-ending. But there’s something in the air, something that sets her nerves on edge. Looking up, she realizes that it’s gotten exceptionally dark, the clouds concentrating into one dense curtain in the sky, removing any sign that the stars had been there in the first place.

“Jimin, wait… this doesn’t feel right.” Realizing, based on the pained expression that fills Jimin’s face when she interrupts his secretly heartfelt rant, that she’s said the wrong thing at the wrong time, Y/n shakes her head quickly, motioning out into the distance. “I’m talking about this -- something’s off.” She ignores Jimin’s lingering eyes on her when she stands from her spot on the ground, looking to the treeline and taking in their surroundings. He joins her when he gets a clear look at her face and sees how urgent her gaze is.

The breeze is gone, leaving her with the taste of stale smoke in her lungs, the air still foggy from the bonfire. It seems the sense of freedom had left with the boys, since all she can feel is an invisible weight coming down on her chest -- something coming for her.

And come it does, in Jimin’s frozen form and horrified gaze, staring straight over Y/n’s shoulder into the sky behind her. Whipping around, terrified about what she might find, she’s stepping backwards and colliding with Jimin’s chest before she can even register what she’s seeing. The clouds have darkened considerably and are moving of their own accord, twisting and turning as they take shape in the sky. Jimin begins to shake uncontrollably as the storm clouds become one, revealing the skull with the open jaw, a massive snake emerging from within and wrapping itself cleanly around the top.

“That’s-”

“Guys!”

“Jimin, Y/n-”

“We’re so fucked!” The rest of the group comes crashing into the space in panicked chaos, tearing through their campsite with thinly veiled terror. Taehyung and Namjoon make a beeline for their tent as the sounds of pained screams start to filter in, replacing the comfortable memories of the bonfire with something much darker. Yoongi stands near the fire pit, turning in circles and pulling at his hair desperately as he realizes where they are.

“This isn’t -- this tent, it’s in the middle of --” He stops, breathing hard, hands still buried in his hair as the thought finally hits. “My parents put us in the middle of Slytherin territory.”

Jin comes in behind everyone else, firing curses over his shoulder as he calls out to the group, scanning their faces and doing a mental headcount.

“We need to get out of here -- the muggleborns should go first.” He locks eyes with Namjoon as the older Ravenclaw exits the tent carrying a bag. Namjoon nods, grabbing hold of Taehyung’s wrist and moving toward Y/n, who hasn’t left Jimin’s side.

“I grabbed everything important, so let’s just go.” He reaches for Y/n’s arm, triggering Jimin’s protectiveness. Jimin pulls her closer on instinct, and Namjoon sighs as he releases Taehyung in order to grab both of them. “We need to go.” He addresses Y/n under his breath. “You’re not safe here, either.” They keep eye contact for just a moment, but it’s enough that Y/n is left with the feeling of ice in her blood even after Namjoon’s turned back to the group.

How much… does he know?

Before she can question Jimin about Namjoon’s suspicious behavior, Jimin’s tugging her toward his friends as they move toward the edge of the forest. Pulling back and forcing Jimin to a stop, Y/n points at Jungkook, who has now flanked Jin and is defending one part of their campsite from the oncoming hoard of Slytherins.

“I’m not leaving without him.” The conflicted look that crosses Jimin’s face tears at Y/n’s heart, but she stands her ground, motioning back toward Jungkook. “I have to stay-”

“What? No, you have to go!” The call comes from behind her, and it’s only a matter of moments before Jungkook is by her side, shoving her into Jimin’s arms. “Take her with you! Don’t you ever let her out of your sight-”

“Jungkook, watch out-”

Taehyung yells out to him, just a moment too late. Y/n watches in horror as a red light appears just over Jungkook’s shoulder. It grows bigger and bigger as it flies toward them, accompanied by the disgusted shriek of “Blood Traitor!”, and all she can do is hug Jungkook to her as she waits for the curse to strike him in between his shoulder blades.

Pulling him close, she barely manages to catch the flash of silver that appears, encompassing them as another body slides into view and blocks out everything else. The shield charm is cast wordlessly and so powerfully that it knocks the Slytherin who’d attacked them clean off his feet. Thrown back at least ten feet, he’s left bewildered and sore.

Hoseok stands between Jungkook and the army of Slytherins, breathing heavily as the shield dissipates around them. He holds his head high as he stares down the group, resigning himself to the fact that, after years of hiding his true self from his housemates, his loyalties have been clearly defined in that moment.

The silence that follows is only broken by the soft fwip of a wand being slipped out of a pocket, and it’s as Hoseok is whipping his head around that another red light appears, its caster completely silent. The curse burns through the air, almost as if in slow motion, cutting through the space right under Hoseok’s ear with the sharp precision of a skilled marksman and meeting its target on the other side, searing the ends of Hoseok’s hair as it goes. The Slytherin who’d been poised to attack from the treeline is hurled backwards, disappearing into the forest as everyone watches him go, Yoongi’s wand still trained on the spot where he’d stood.

The cold fury that fills Yoongi’s eyes is replaced with concern as he lowers his wand and rushes to Hoseok’s side, giving him a once over before turning to face the growing crowd of Death Eaters in-training, aligning his loyalties just the same as Hoseok had. Y/n allows herself the small smile that arises when she sees the gaze that Hoseok casts upon Yoongi, filled with the kind of love she could only hope to have in her own life. The moment doesn’t last long.

The group of friends, realizing almost simultaneously that they’re being surrounded, forms a huddle facing outward, wands steady as they prepare for the attack.

“If we make it out of this shit alive, I’m going to throw the biggest fit of my life when I get home.” The mention of the Dark Lord’s most loyal Min family sets off the first wave of curses, their traitorous son the target.

One by one, the group takes down their attackers, tiring out but never giving up. Minimal injuries are sustained on their end, their will to survive too strong to forgive even the slightest mistake. Jimin keeps one hand on Y/n at all times, unwilling to lose track of her for even a moment, as if she’s not been stuck to his side all night.

Curses rain down on them from all sides, the Dark Mark in the sky peeking through the shower of red lights as they fight for their lives. Jimin feels Y/n stagger beside him, but she seems to be unharmed when he looks her over. Glancing in alarm at the moon, barely visible amongst all the smoke and mayhem, Jimin curses under his breath as he remembers the date -- and more importantly, that she hadn’t yet taken her dose for the night. He pours all his energy into his attacks from that moment on, everything suddenly becoming much more urgent.

Time passes so slowly that none of them are quite sure how long they’ve been there, fighting in a war they’d never asked for. Just when Y/n thinks they might be losing -- that they might be forced to pledge allegiance to the Dark Lord, or even killed where they stand -- there’s a loud pop and a gush of wind passes over all of them.

From within their circle comes the angered cry of Sirius Black, who manages to deflect a rather mean curse headed straight for Jin’s chest. He’s followed by James and Remus, the three of them throwing themselves into the mix so carelessly that it catches the Slytherins by surprise. James takes advantage of the delay, surging out of the circle toward the largest density of Slytherins and pointing his wand at the ground closest to them.

“Confringo!” The earth beneath their feet shudders under James’ command, collapsing in on itself before exploding outward, sending no less than 10 people flying through the air and creating a chaos too intense for the rest to handle. The world around them becomes fuzzy and confusing, and Y/n feels nothing except the hands that pull at her and urge her forward into the forest.

They all manage to stumble far enough away from the mess to gather their bearings, but the shouts of their enemies are not far off. As soon as they confirm that they’re all alive and relatively unscathed, Remus takes Y/n by the elbow and pulls her gently to him. Jimin is reluctant to let her go.

“I need to talk to you -- we have to go somewhere safe.” Sirius is collecting the rest of the group and giving them the location of a safe place to meet, a small cottage in the countryside where he and Remus had been living.

“You guys head there first, we’ll meet you.” He hands the keys to Jungkook, who nods in understanding as he sees that Remus has no intention to rejoin the group. Jimin starts to reach for Y/n, unhappy with their separation, but Hoseok speaks up from the back. He’s being half-carried by Yoongi, his leg having suffered a bit of damage from James’ blasting curse, but not so much that he couldn’t walk. Y/n bites back a smirk, suspecting that Hoseok had just been looking for an excuse to need Yoongi, who is absolute garbage at hiding how pleased he is.

“Make sure you come back soon. I trust you guys, and I know you need to talk in private, but I don’t like not having Y/n close in times like this.” Remus nods, acknowledging Jungkook as well, before leading Y/n away. The boys start to apparate away, James helping Hoseok and Yoongi get to the house safely before returning to join his friends. Remus has led Y/n a safe enough distance away that the Slytherins would have a hard time finding them and is explaining the gravity of the situation to her.

“-- to infiltrate a pack of werewolves living in the mountains. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone, Y/n.” Y/n examines Remus’ face, noting the new scars and the exhaustion that lies heavy in his eyes. He looks nothing like the bright school boy from just a few months ago, and she knows he’s seen unimaginable things in the short time that he’s been working under Dumbledore. They all look drained and, frankly, terrified. The lives they’d been promised from a young age were fading away into this dreary nothingness, this thankless job where nothing is more uncertain than the future.

“You’ll be careful, won’t you? Just tell me you’ll be careful -- all of you.” Remus looks taken aback by her words, and Sirius can’t suppress the soft chuckle that escapes him, amazed at this girl standing before him, not nearly as reserved as they’d all thought her to be.

“Of course we’ll be careful, love. Don’t you trust us?” Y/n shakes her head, smiling despite her scoff.

“Trust you guys? I didn’t realize you were an aspiring comedian, Sirius.” They laugh openly now, thankful for even just this moment of reprieve from the hell they live in. Remus leans over, patting her adoringly on her head, as if they weren’t damn near the same age.

“Good, that’s good. Don’t trust anyone, Y/n, you hear me? Don’t trust anyone you wouldn’t die for. Can you do that for me?” Y/n nods, the picture of those boys in that cottage in the countryside coming to mind so easily.

“I know who my people are. There’s no one else besides them -- and you guys. So try your best not to get yourselves killed?” James salutes her once as Sirius nods. Remus moves to agree, but the sound of leaves crunching not too far away triggers an immediate response in him. Lunging forward and taking her into his arms, he throws Y/n over his shoulder and takes off running, knowing better than anyone else what it would mean if she were caught. Y/n watches with horror as two Death Eaters appear out of what looks like thin air, sending James and Sirius into action. She can do nothing but watch as they deflect curses while maintaining their ground.

Remus sets her down a long distance away, trying to warn her again, but her attention is on the action they’d just managed to escape. She tries to push past him to go help James and Sirius, but he grabs her by the shoulders quickly and forces her to look at him, shaking her roughly in the process.

“Listen to me, Y/n- listen to me!” She meets his eyes, alarmed by the frustration in his voice. “The public knows. They know now just to what extent the werewolf population is siding with Voldemort. Everything before this summer was just speculation -- of course the evil magical beasts should side with the Dark Lord, right? Well, the Minister of Magic just released a statement this morning. Everyone knows now. And it won’t matter how much we cry and beg and plead for our lives -- if they catch us, we’re dead. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Y/n can do no more than stare into Remus’ eyes, wishing this all away -- wishing that they could just be back in school, a bunch of kids with no worries about the war. But the longer she stares into his eyes, the longer she realizes that they don’t just have to worry about the war now. They’re part of it. Two werewolves with way too many people keeping their secret. James, Sirius, Peter, Jungkook, Hoseok, and now Jimin? And --

Does Namjoon know, too? Just who the hell else has to be put into danger because of what I am?

--

Y/n steps through the front gate of the cottage, having been dropped off by Remus -- she’s not of age yet to apparate alone -- before he disappeared again, presumably to help his friends escape. She’s barely within ten feet of the front door when it’s flying open, Jimin appearing before her with wild eyes. He rushes at her, taking her into his arms with a desperation he didn’t even know he felt. She pats at his back, unsure of what to say, still dazed from everything Remus had told her.

“I was only gone a few minutes…” Jimin pulls back, looking at her as if she’s insane.

“I don’t care. Those were the worst few minutes of my life. I hated not knowing if you were okay.” He looks her over, patting at her arms gently. “You are okay, right?” When she nods he sighs before glancing around them urgently as if realizing they’re out in the open. He tugs her inside, shutting the door tightly behind them. He’s about to motion her down the hallway into the living room, where the rest of their friends are regrouping, but she stops him. The look she gives him is suspicious, and he’s unsure why.

“Jimin, you told me you would never breathe a word of what I am to anyone…” He looks at her with alarm, shaking his head.

“I didn’t tell anyone anything -- why? What happened?” She examines him for a moment, seeing that Jimin’s as confused as she is. She proceeds with caution, realizing that if Jimin really hadn’t said anything, then this conversation is about to be very uncomfortable.

“I think… Namjoon might know something…” Jimin feels like he can’t breathe then, the air stopping short in his chest as his heart drops out from under him. He swears without thinking, the word slipping out as he processes what she’s saying.

“Fuck… shit… fuck…” Y/n squints at him, unsure of where his mind’s just gone. Jimin squeezes his eyes shut, another swear falling from his lips as guilt overcomes him. He opens his mouth to explain, but he can’t bring himself to look her in the eyes.

“Before I figured out… everything, I would talk to Joon about things that confused me… about you.” He opens his eyes just enough to glance at her before looking away, but he’s surprised that she isn’t fuming with anger. She’s only thinking carefully about his words.

“So, he probably put it together on his own.” She comes to the conclusion as she ponders, offering the reason for Namjoon’s comment to her earlier. Jimin lurches forward, taking her hand in both of his, eyes pleading.

“I swear to you, Y/n, I didn’t say a word of this to him after I figured it out. I completely dropped it, and when he asked me why, I just told him I was respecting your privacy by minding my own business -- I promise, I never said anything--”

“Jimin!” His name cuts through the air, and his mouth snaps shut immediately to give her room to talk. “I’m not mad at you. I’m more worried than anything… I wonder who else knows…”

“Uhm, actually--” The new voice has them both turning to look to the end of the hallway, where Tae’s standing awkwardly in the doorway to the living room. He’s flanked by Jin and Yoongi, Namjoon standing with Jungkook and Hoseok just inside the room.

“--I think we all know…” The blood drains from both Y/n and Jimin’s faces as Jungkook and Hoseok look to each other in alarm. Jin nods, Yoongi smiling awkwardly to confirm what Tae’s saying. The air in the house is cold, no one willing to break the tense silence while Y/n processes what she’s just heard. She meets Jungkook’s eyes then, his gaze betraying the immense fear that he’s feeling, much like the ice running through her veins.

None of them even notice the front door opening behind Jimin, the three Marauders stumbling into the house, disheveled but generally unscathed. They stop short at the scene before them, glancing amongst themselves before James is breaking the silence himself.

“Are we… interrupting something…?”

--

“Okay, someone start talking before I go insane.” They’re all crowded into the living room meant only for a few people, Y/n and Remus sitting together on a couch in the middle of the room, everyone else taking up the extra seats and floor space. It looks like a club meeting gone horribly wrong, if the discomfort in everyone’s eyes is anything to go by. Y/n looks around after demanding an explanation, finally looking to Namjoon, as he’s the only one she’d been aware of until a few minutes ago. He sighs and runs a hand through his hair.

“After Jimin suddenly stopped all the obsessive theorizing and curiosities, I got suspicious… I had a feeling he’d put everything together, and I was worried that he was getting himself into some kind of trouble because that’s just the kind of nosy Ravenclaw he is. I just put it together myself so I could help him if I needed to…” Jimin grimaces at Namjoon’s words, knowing them to be true but disliking the description all the same.

The glare of irritation Jungkook’s been shooting him doesn’t help, but Hoseok pulls the Gryffindor’s attention away with a bump of his knee against Jungkook’s thigh. When Jungkook drags his burning gaze away from Jimin to look at Hoseok, Jimin’s shocked to see that Hoseok’s simply shaking his head at the Jeon heir, silently telling him to back off. Jimin’s eyes widen then, never having experienced such a sense of stunned relief as he feels in this moment with Hoseok’s quiet support.

Jungkook turns his annoyed gaze over to the spot where Taehyung, Jin, and Yoongi sit. He locks eyes with his roommate of six years.

“Tae?” The boy in question looks down at his hands sheepishly, glancing at Y/n in a way that seems almost apologetic. When he lifts his head, he speaks directly to her, feeling that his explanation should be for her and her alone.

“Jimin’s my best friend… it would be weird if I wasn’t worried about him with him acting so strange. I didn’t really figure it out until the beginning of the summer, when I started spending more time with you -- I noticed how sick you’d get around the same time each month, and you’d always look so tired afterwards. I know we don’t know each other as well as Jimin knows you, but I was worried about you, so I… did my own digging and put the pieces together. It also explained a lot about all the times Jungkook would run out of our room in a panic in the middle of the night. There were just… a lot of things that made sense once I’d started to think about it.” Y/n keeps her eyes on him, trying to process the guilt in his eyes and wondering why he sounds so upset. “I know that you’re probably terrified of us knowing, but I promise I was just worried about you. I’m sorry I was snooping in your life…”

Y/n sees then that Taehyung feels the same kind of responsibility that Jimin had always carried in his eyes -- one of fear that his actions would bring her harm. He’d been sitting with that for the whole summer, quietly trying his best to keep her safe by pretending he knew nothing at all. She opens her mouth to tell him that he has nothing to feel bad about, but Jin’s clearing his throat.

“I, uh-- we--” He gestures to the space between himself and Yoongi, whose gaze is one of cautious observation as the conversation goes on around him. “We… were on our way back to Yoongi’s room and overheard you and Hoseok talking -- something about Jimin finding out… Hoseok was really upset, and he was kind of yelling. We didn’t mean to eavesdrop -- it’s just that we were right outside, and you were trying to calm him down, and he was just saying a lot of stuff that was confusing and weird, but it was obvious what was going on.” Jin glances over at Yoongi as if to confirm his story, and the Slytherin only nods. He turns back to Y/n, finishing his explanation. “We found out together--”

“Actually--” Everyone’s attention turns to Yoongi, who shifts uncomfortably under the weight of their gazes. He clears his throat, scratching at his neck while he finds his words. “Actually… I already knew by then. I think, based on what everyone’s been saying, that I probably knew before any of them…” He trails off, leaving the group to devolve into strained chaos.

“Wait, you knew?”

“How long have you known?!”

“When did you find out?” Ignoring the barrage of questions, Yoongi only looks to Hoseok, whose eyes tell how shocked he is. Flicking his gaze to Y/n, Yoongi continues.

“Do you remember when we first met? That night in the Hospital Wing -- it was before winter break.” Y/n’s jaw drops as her memories fly all the way back to December -- almost a year prior. “I went to visit you, originally because Hobi had mentioned something about going to visit a friend and I was looking for an excuse to see him.” Hoseok laughs under his breath, still stunned into disbelief about the situation, but Yoongi hasn’t stopped talking, almost rambling now.

“I had just found out that you guys were even friends -- it was really weird for me to think about, you know? Until then, he’d only ever been friends with Slytherins, and even then he seemed hesitant about getting close to them. I mean, I get it, that’s how I was, too. But to find out that my roommate since first year had a secret friend group with people that made no sense for him to know -- I was curious about you. I wanted to see what you were like. Especially because Jimin was, like, obsessed with you -- sorry, Jimin.” The Ravenclaw grimaces again, hating that he’s been described only as obsessive but knowing that that’s exactly what he’d been like.

“So… what does that have to do with finding out about me? How did you know?” Y/n leans forward, elbows on her knees as she looks intently at Yoongi. He sighs in response.

“Look. My entire life, I’ve been trying to separate myself from my name. My parents are objectively fucking insane, and I want nothing to do with them, especially now that they pulled that bullshit with the World Cup reservation. I can’t be like them, okay? I would rather die fighting on the right side of this war than ever pledge my allegiance to that nose-less freak. But that doesn’t change the fact that I still live at the Min Estate. And the Min Estate -- it’s like a beacon for the wicked and evil. I’ve seen every kind of creature walk through the doors of my house whenever my parents hold their Death Eater meetings. It’s like a monthly book club, but for murder. So I know what werewolves are like. I know the signs and the symptoms, and I know how cruel and vicious they can be.”

Y/n breaks her gaze then, staring down at her feet as he confirms every fear that she’s ever felt -- that she would be seen as a monster, an evil beast with only the instinct to kill. All the same, it hurts to hear him say it out loud.

“And that’s why I knew you were nothing like them.” Y/n’s head whips up, and she sees that Yoongi’s focused on conveying to her with his eyes that he means what he’s said. He doesn’t see the affection that fills Hoseok’s gaze, replacing the icy fear he’d been feeling the entire time Yoongi’s been talking.

“You’re nothing like them, Y/n. You’re kind and considerate, and you’re so shy around new people that even I’m in pain just watching you struggle to talk. You’re really fucking weird, and your sense of humor has been shaped by growing up with a crazy ass Gryffindor brother and this sarcastic asshole--” He points then to his boyfriend, finally feeling confident enough to look Hoseok in the eye as he cracks the joke before returning his attention to Y/n.

“So, yes, you’re a werewolf. But you’ve got nothing to worry about with me. Or any of us, to be honest.” The rest of the group nods then, and Y/n feels the air returning to her lungs after so long of holding her breath. It’s only when she looks to Remus, who still seems unsure, that she remembers how complicated their situation is.

“I appreciate that, I really do. You guys have no idea how scared I was that you’d find out… but it’s not as simple as you think -- not that any of this has been simple to begin with. It’s just… more complicated--”

“So, are we talking about Remus, or something else?” Taehyung speaks up, looking genuinely confused about what she’s alluding to. James and Sirius tense where they sit on either side of Remus, whose gaze has just become very guarded.

“I’m not sure what you mean--”

“The ‘you being a werewolf’ thing? Yeah, that wasn’t hard to figure out once I knew what to look for in Y/n.” It’s Jin who cuts him off, Yoongi and Namjoon nodding along. Jungkook throws his hands in the air, flopping back against the couch with an exasperated sigh.

“Just how bad are we at keeping things a secret around here?!” Remus groans in response, but James and Sirius seem to be taking the news in stride.

“Look on the bright side, Moony -- now we have an army of hooligans to keep you guys safe!” Remus rolls his eyes in irritation before looking to Y/n for help. She stares down at her hands, feeling more exhausted than she’s ever felt in her life -- and she experiences monthly painful transformations that leave her bedridden for days after.

“This isn’t a joke, James.” The Potter boy snaps his mouth shut when, for the first time since meeting her, Y/n’s voice carries an edge when she addresses him. “The number of people that are in danger now because of what we are has just doubled. And now there are muggleborns involved -- what’s going to happen if anyone gets wind that they know something about us? With what the Ministry’s just released… it’s too much. This is all too much.” Namjoon hums then, pulling Y/n out of the dangerously dark mental dive she was just about to take.

“I mean, we’re involved in this war whether we know about you guys or not. We’re already fighting for our lives -- what difference does it make if we know what you are? If anything, it gives us a reason to fight harder.” He gestures among all of them, all eleven of them in that room.

“We’re all we have left in this war -- why wouldn’t we do everything it takes to keep each other safe?”

[winter-turtle]

Familiar-Unfamiliar - Winterturtle - Marvel Cinematic Universe [Archive of Our Own]

Tony mentally shuddered. Taking care of a regular kid was bad enough, taking care of a teenager was even worse, but taking care of an enhanced amnesiac teenager? That was a disaster in waiting. Tony could barely take care of himself, so just how exactly was he supposed to take care of another human being that practically didn’t know anything about the world?

~

Or villain Tony takes on a role of reluctant caretaker.

The boy’s eyes fluttered open, then immediately closed as the light above him stabbed his eyes. God, his head hurt.

But why did his head hurt? Did he fell asleep on the table again? Did he get hit with a dodgeball?

No… neither of those options seemed right. It was like a good chunk of his memory was missing. Or… more like his whole memory… The boy willed himself to remember, but another wave of pain crashed into his head, making him whine.

“You with me this time, kid?”

The voice sounded familiar, but the boy still couldn’t place it. Where did he knew the voice from?

“Hello?” the man drawled.

“Lights,” the boy muttered.

“Right.”

To the boy’s relief, the lights dimmed, allowing him to open his eyes and take in his surroundings. Huh. What was he doing in a hospital room? Did he get hit with that dodgeball after all? If yes, then he really should do something about…

About who? There was supposed to be name, he knew there was supposed to be the name! Why couldn’t he remember the name? He had to go to… someone… someone who had something to do with chairs… yeah, that someone would definitely help him.

…if only he knew where to find that someone…

The man cleared his throat, making the boy – Peter! His name was Peter! – turn to him. The man with brown eyes and a goatee was leaning on the wall, his arms crossed over his chest and displeased look on his face. Tiny frown settled on Peter’s face as he pushed himself into sitting position. He groaned again, rubbing his face with his palm.

“Great. You’re awake now,” the man continued. “Let me start with this: What the hell?”

“Uh…”

“All this time! All this time, all those encounters we had—"

Peter blinked owlishly at him.

“—I can’t believe they’ve been allowing a kid—”

What the hell was the man talking about?

“—gosh, you’re a kid! You have no business running around like that and putting yourself in danger!”

Oh lord. Was he in trouble? It definitely sounded like he was in trouble.

“—not to mention that this is below my level—”

Well, the man obviously knew him if he was scolding him like that. That was good, right?

“—can you imagine my utter shock—”

“Do you who I am?” Peter blurted out, cutting out the man’s rambling.

It was the man’s turn to be confused. “What kind of question is that? Yeah, I know who you are!” he threw up his arms, then muttered, “I do now, at least.”

Peter was pretty sure he wasn’t supposed to hear that last part, that it should be impossible to hear that last part, yet he did. Yet another mystery to be solved. “Good. Because,” he took in shuddering breath, “because I don’t,” he admitted.

“You… don’t know who you are?”

Peter shook his head.

The man fell silent. Then-

This was a total mess.

“Fuck!”

This was a total mess and Tony had no idea what to do. First the kid saw his face, then the kid got accidentally unmasked and… look, Tony knew he was a villain and the fights kinda became their thing, but he couldn’t just let him lie there in the middle of the battlefield while he was bleeding from the head!

It wasn’t even his mess to clean up to begin with! Some other asshole just showed up, claimed he had beef with Spidey and the rest was history. Tony was more of a recreational villain. It was a hobby born out of boredom. His fights with the spider-themed hero were more of a game to him than anything else. Like the kid was a cat chasing the red dot and Tony was the one holding the laser pointer.

What did he do to deserve this? Was it karma for all the time Rhodey had to take care of him during their MIT years?

Tony sighed for the umpteenth time.

“Sir? Are you okay?”

As he said – total mess. Tony kept stirring the eggs on the pan as the kid sat on one of the barstools, kicking his legs and looking around with those impossibly wide Bambi eyes filled to the brim with curiosity. Tony told him to stay in the room, but did the kid listen? Of course not! Because he was a little shit even if he couldn’t remember a damn thing!

“Don’t call me sir. I’m not that old,” Tony grumbled.

The kid’s head tilted to the side in a way that reminded Tony of a puppy. “Then what should I call you?”

God, he’s been fighting a literal kid this whole time.

Tony considered remaining silent. He was a villain. The kid was a hero. The fact remained unchanged even in their current predicament.

“You’re awfully trusting, you know?”

The kid shrugged. “You clearly know me, so… that has to amount to something, right? And besides, you would’ve hurt me already if you had any ill intentions.”

“How do you know I won’t hurt you now?”

“I just do. It’s,” he gestured vaguely, then let out a frustrated sigh. “Look, I can’t explain, but I have this feeling that tells me you’re alright. Like I can trust you.”

Tony made a grimace that could be compared to the face he was making while constipating. It was a good thing his back was facing the kid. “So I’m making you feel safe?”

Please say no. Please say no.

“Yeah, basically.”

Shit.

Tony sighed again. He piled the scrambled eggs on the plate and placed it in front of Peter. “Tony.”

The kid looked up from the plate. “What?”

“You asked what you can call me. Tony. You can call me Tony.”

The kid beamed. “Okay, Tony,” he said and dug in with the appetite of starving man. Tony piled the rest of the eggs on his own plate and joined the teen. Knowing him, Tony should’ve known the silence wouldn’t last too long.

“How do we know each other?”

“Uh…” Yeah, Tony wasn’t sure he should be telling him that. The kid was unpredictable at best and as much as Tony didn’t want to deal with the amnesiac teen, he couldn’t just release him into the wild to fend for himself. “I think it’s best if we let those things come back naturally.”

And until then, he will have to… take care of him. Tony mentally shuddered. Taking care of a regular kid was bad enough, taking care of a teenager was even worse, but taking care of an enhanced amnesiac teenager? That was a disaster in waiting. Tony could barely take care of himself, so just how exactly was he supposed to take care of another human being that practically didn’t know anything about the world?

The kid accepted that as a good enough answer and returned to his food, allowing Tony to resume the brainstorming on how to un-fuck the situation. There wasn’t much he could do since the amnesia was caused by a blunt trauma to the head. If it was caused by magic, then he could go and drop the kid off at the wizard’s doorstep with a note explaining the situation or something and be done with it. The kid’s only remaining family was out of town for the week, and he couldn’t go to the Avengers for obvious reasons.

Wait, couldn’t keeping the kid here be classified as kidnapping?

“Are you my dad?”

The question was so sudden it made Tony choke on the next bite. Violent coughing fit followed. What the hell possessed the kid to ask that?! He? A father? Yeah, no thanks.

There was a hand hitting his back in an attempt to alleviate the coughing. A moment later, Tony got his breathing under control.

“Are you okay?” the kid asked, worried frown on his face.

“Yes, but no!” Tony cleared his throat. “I’m not your dad. How did you come up with something like that?”

The kid had the gall to look sheepish. “Well… you were scolding me when I woke up. Like… you know…” he rubbed the back of his neck, trailing off.

“Like a parent?” Tony finished.

The kid’s cheeks reddened as he nodded. Then he flinched and his hands flew to clutch his head. Tony was at his side immediately. “What’s up?” he asked while lowering the teen into the chair.

The kid squeezed his eyes shut.

Shit, did Tony overlook something? Was there some hidden injury? He knew he shouldn’t have let the kid follow him! Or… was his memory coming back? If yes, then double-shit because Tony still hasn’t figured out what to do when that happened.

“It’s gone,” Peter whispered.

“What’s gone?”

“I…” he shook his head, “I thought I saw something. Like a brief flash of a picture, but when I reached for it, it disappeared.”

Tony was at loss of what to say, but he knew he had to say something because the kid looked so damn sad, it almost pulled at his heart strings. Yeah, only almost, definitely nothing more. “Hey,” he said, placing his hand on Peter’s shoulder gently, “if you saw a flash of what might have been some memory, then that’s a good thing! That means it’ll eventually all come back!”

God, he really had no idea how he’ll handle this once the kid’s memories came back. There will be no explaining the gentleness. He was a villain. A man of steel! He didn’t do feelings, especially towards annoying spider-teens. But the way the kid leaned into the touch made something in his chest stir.

The kid had multiple incidents like that throughout the next few days, all with the same result. But the one thing Tony discovered was that the kid… wasn’t that bad to be around. He was smart, fast learner and always hungry for knowledge. He could keep up with what Tony said without breaking a sweat. The knowledge, even if buried by amnesia, was still there somewhere.

“Finish your food,” Tony said. “We’ll see what we can do about your memories after that.”

Aside from some painfully awkward interactions, doors ripped out of their hinges and reassurances that it was okay, that there was nothing wrong with him and the strength and stickiness was kind of his thing, Tony would say that they got along.

“We’re part of the same family that branched generations ago because of a conflict involving a plot of land, a pig, a goat, a donkey and witchcraft.”

But how long would that last?

“That’s oddly specific, but no. For the last time, we’re not related.”

“Well, technically, all humans are related.”

“Okay, you smartass, but not like that.”

“Hmm, then… you’re an alien that was sent to look over me because I’m the chosen one destined to defeat evil overlord and bring peace and prosperity to some distant planet.”

“You’re just bullshitting now, aren’t you?”

“Maybe. You didn’t answer though.”

“Eh, even with all the crazy stuff going on in the world from time to time, that is also not correct.”

“Then we’re… rivals!”

Tony paused his tinkering. “You could say that, but not quite.”

The kid’s eyes lit up, excited that he was getting closer to the answer. Before he could open his mouth with another onslaught, Tony spoke up.

“Enough with the guessing game for now. Let’s order some dinner. Do you want anything specific?”

The kid looked thoughtful for a moment, then looked up. “Thai,” he said slowly.

“Does anything seem familiar?” Tony asked as he walked into the living room with their dinner.

Tony nodded. “Thai it is.”

Peter, looking intently at the movie titles since he was asked to pick one, pointed at one title. “I don’t know if it’s familiar, but let’s watch this one.”

Tony nodded. “Star Wars. A classic. Okay, hop here so we can start. I’m starving.”

Peter took the offered container. “Thanks.”

It’s been a week since he woke up in here and as much as the images in his head became clearer, it still wasn’t enough to figure out who he was. He was lucky to have Tony looking after him, even if the man didn’t want to say how they know each other – hence the guessing game.

Another painful onslaught hit him at the same moment as the theme song started playing and the food hit his tongue. Peter flinched. More images flashed in front of his eyes.

A woman with glasses and long brown hair.

A boy with black hair holding some round construction in his hands.

Red and blue… what?

And just like that, the images were gone. Peter let out long sigh. No luck this time either.

But this is good, he thought and took another bite.

As the movie progressed, Peter found himself seeing more images and to his thrill, he even finished some lines of the dialogue – all in his head, of course.

It wasn’t until the Death Star exploded that Peter’s head exploded too. Every single image he’d seen suddenly made sense. Connections reestablished themselves and swooped Peter away in a single wave. His heart began to race. Bending over, he wrapped his arms around his stomach, the stress threatening to give the food the return ticket.

“You good?”

Peter wrapped his hands around his stomach a little tighter. He was sitting next to Tony. Tony was Iron Man. Iron Man took-

“Yeah,” Peter forced out and shot to his feet and speed-walked out of the living room. “Just… bathroom.”

“The Thai didn’t sit well with you?”

Peter could hear the worry in his voice. “I guess,” he called over his shoulder and shut the door behind him. “Okay, okay,” he whispered to himself as he fought off the blush from his face and searched for an exit. His saving grace came to him in the form of the window.

Honestly, Tony told himself it was to be expected. The kid was bound to remember and it was only natural that he bolted once it happened. It was fine though, really. Sure, it stung, but he dd his best to squash the feeling.

He slipped into the night.

Why should it matter that some onesie-clad teenager though of him? As a matter of fact, Tony should be plotting how to shut the kid up so he couldn’t rat out his identity.

Yes, he should be doing that.

But he wasn’t.

Someone knocked on the door, making Tony’s irritation worse. Begrudgingly, he stood up, ready to snap at whoever who dared to disturb his sulking- ahem, he meant… never mind. He opened the door and to his surprise, he was met with empty space.

“Damn kids with their pranks,” he grumbled under his breath. His sour mood almost made him miss the package sitting on his doormat. “Huh,” was all he said. Strange. He didn’t remember ordering anything.

Tony set the package on the table and opened it. The first thing that greeted him was a note with familiar scrawl. Peter’s handwriting. Tony pulled out the letter and began to read.

Hi, Mr. Tony!

So, uh, first of all, let me say sorry that I ran away like that! I just, uh, couldn’t take advantage of your kindness anymore. I didn’t want to be a burden.

Tony frowned. So the kid ran because he was… embarrassed?Not because Tony was a villain? He decided to read on.

Next, let me say thank you for getting me off that battlefield. I looked up the footage and saw that you defended me from that other guy, so, thanks for that too.

I have a proposition for you – you won’t tell anyone my identity and I won’t tell anyone yours. It’ll stay between you and me. Well, and my aunt… But she forced me to talk, I swear! She got home early and didn’t believe me when I said I stayed over at new friend’s place. You can’t lie to her!

So, please, keep my identity secret. You might have your suits, but one does not simply mess with May. I doubt you want an angry Italian lady on your ass…

She also insisted on giving you a gift as a thank you for taking care of me. She made you a date loaf. I’m sorry about that.

Tony frowned again. Why would the kid be sorry about a date loaf? He ripped a piece of it, popped it into his mouth and immediately choked. Not really feeling like cleaning the chewed food from his carped, he forcefully swallowed it down. “Okay, I get it now,” he said, shuddering.

P.S. I hope the knowledge of my age won’t change the way we interact while in our suits. The fights with you are fun but I’m getting bored of holding back so you can win. :P XD

- Peter

Tony gasped.

That cheeky little shit! He was going easy on Tony to let him win?! Oh no, Tony didn’t think so! There will be no more going easy! The kid wanted war? He’ll get a war.

But despite that, Tony found himself fondly smirking. “Next time…”

Someone was watching him. Tony looked out of the window just in time to see a blur of red and blue disappear behind a wall of the house on the other side of the street.

“Sure, kid. See you next time.”

[horrorslashergirl]

Jax Roman

He's 6'8

41

Male

Dominate

Kills usually by means of torture, he has a underground dungeon where he brings his victims. It's like a red room with different tools lining the walls.

He usually goes after men off the streets, finding their shrill screams amusing.

His personality is under construction but he's probably gonna be a cocky asshole

(( he has bright green eyes and a little lower than shoulder length blone hair, his has a scar over his left eye and a couple piercing. His favorite is his tongue piercing. His very muscular but still more lean, he has scars all over his body as well.))

-His wife will come next-

Richard Firewood

Richard can appreciate someone with a steak for torture, but he does it more for money purpose and to indulge into his surgeon passion. I think Richard would be neutral towards Jax, like.... If he doesn't bother Richard, they are on neutral grounds.

Richard: He better not bother me. I am a busy man and money makes the world go around.

Jackson Jasper

Another man who kills for fun purpose too, Jackson would probably be on good terms with Jax, like talking over torture methods over some good whiskey.

Jackson: Seems like a cool guy. Maybe have a chat of torture over a glass of whiskey.

Bambi Miller

She may find him interesting but she won't act submissive. She is a fierce woman and loves a challenge. Also... Piercings? She got one on her belly button and much lower.

Bambi: Sugar Jaw seems interesting... Maybe we can have a conversation over a bottle of tequila.

The Hacker

I hear torture buddies bells ringing. Torture is Hackers middle names and he has quite an imagination. He might get along with Jax just great, but he better not get too cocky with the Hacker because he is the big shit around here into torture games. Respect is gonna be a must if they gonna be friends.

The Hacker: Torture ya say? I can appreciate maiming a body but the cocksucker better know I am the big shit at torture.

Dave Anthony

Ohhh... Torture you say? Dave is gonna show torture to Jax... On his own skin. This dangerous and evil poltergeist will sure maim Jax all for fun and bask into seeing this so called Dom be a pile of flesh and bones.

Dave: He calls himself dominating? *laughs diabolically*

Azol

Another evil entity who will sure have the ultimate amusment into hunting Jax each moment of day and night. He is gonna take great pleasure into destroying Jax mind.

Azol: If he is a dominant person then I am a motherfucking priest that sucked the Devils cock. *smirks* He looks like a sloppy cumfilled cunt.

Samuel Grayson

Cocky and arrogant? That's enough to say for Samuel to turn Jax into a raw steak for the hellhounds on his back. Jax aura would make Samuel really displeased and if he tries to get to close to him... Well? I really hope Jax wouldn’t mind having his arms chewed off.

Samuel: *scowls* He smells disgusting. His aura hurts the nose of my hellhounds.

Azment

Another evil entity but with a passion for pure carnal desires. She can appreciate a Dom like Jax and she might.. More than likely, take him to her Master Bedroom.

Azment: *smirks lewdly* Ohhh he seems like a fun boy.... Maybe we can have a small chit-chat between the bedsheets.

Gerome Montana and Axel Friedrich

I think these two would be on neutral grounds with Jax, as long as he doesn't get to handsy... Because I am sure Jax wouldn’t like to be stabbed in the knee or shot into his ankels.

Gerome: He seems like a fun dude... But I don't think my Bro Axel will dig him that much.

Axel: *scowls* I don't like him.

The Shadow

Arrogance might be something Shadow hates, ironicallg because he is like that too, but only because of his high intelectual abilities and skills into surgery... And disecting people. Shadow will be pissed off of Jax puts his smug attitude on this serial killer.

The Shadow: *cleans his scalpels* I don't care what he does as long as he keeps his nose out of my business. His intelect is no match for mine.

Bahini Talibah

Safe to say, this immortal woman wouldn't like Jax. She makes her uncomfortable and if he doesn't get the point of keeping distance he will suffer a painfull death.

Bahini: He makes me anxious. Enough said.

Mitch Carson

Feral Gask Mask Man wouldn't like Jax. He will simply view him as just another hunt and lunch.

Mitch: *growls behind the gas mask getting his crossbow ready*

Damiano Liberato

He is cocky and arrogant too and he can appreciate that into other men, but manners and a good etiquette are a must with this slice and dice mogul.

Damiano: Ughh.... He better have some class on him. If I see peons dressed in track suits I am gonna skin them alive.

Xaviera Lah-Mo

Cocky and arrogant men aren't her piece of cake, unless is her Wolf. Jax better keep his distance or else he might get shot into the balls by her sniper.

Xaviera: Not interesting me in the slightest bit.

Akshay Lah-Mo

Akshay doesn't like arrogant and cocky people, and if Jax will continue to annoy Akshay, the Polar bear might break his spine.

Akshay: *glares* His arrogance annoys me... He better keep his hands to himself unless he wants them broken.

Decebal Avram Chirilă

Decebal can appreciate a dominant man greatly and he doesn't mind getting on the bottom, but torture? Please.... Decebal has endured so much torture it feels like being petted and I am sure Jax wouldn’t like to have this assassins swords cutting through his torso.

Decebal: *smirks* He seems like a cool guy to hang around with... Just don't get too cocky, dragă because I am a switch and my Dom side will pounce on you.

Alexander Chirilă

Alex loves a great dominat man and I am sure Jax would be a perfect match for him, plus even thought Alex is a sub, he has great pain endurace, so torture is no problem for him.

Alexander: *blushes at the Dom part* Umm... He seems fine.. I-I guess.

Nadia Nikolina Chirilă

Jax might find his jaw knocked off by Nadia, because she isn't a big fan of dominating men, especially arrogant ones. Keep your distance Jax. Just a piece of advice.

Nadia: *raises a brow and snorts* Not my type and defenitly not someone I can tolerate too much.

[misha-moose-dean-burger-lover]

Be Mine, This Quarantine ~ (II)

Dean pulls out his phone, clicks on the camera icon, and takes a selfie.

He looks adequately grouchy in it - his uninterested eyebrow-raise, an indisputable declaration that clicking a picture of himself irritates and annoys him, as it should every respectable non-preadolescent person. Also, he manages to get Cas's apartment building, a little bit of the night sky, and his very last moving box of stuffs, in the frame.

It's labelled 'Socks' on the top, and should make Dean feel like a dork if he wasn't going to send the picture straight to Sam - the dorkier of the two of them, by far, and also someone who's well-acquainted with Dean's fascination for hilarious novelty socks.

No sooner has the message been sent, it's been seen, and Dean's getting a call from his little brother.

"It's dark." Sam greets, with all the subtle pointedness of a soon-to-be-lawyer. "Why is it dark?"

"Are you just staring at your screen, waiting for me to text you all day?" Dean throws back, and Sam makes a noncommittal sound. "And it's dark cause it's almost nine."

"And you're still not done?" Sam sounds surprised.

"Almost," Dean bites his cheek. He has to admit Sam has a point. Moving in's supposed to be a morning, in-the-sun kind of activity. "In my defense, I started late. Cas made me spend all morning at his place, getting to know Catsanova."

"His cat?"

"It's literally in the name, Sammy."

"Hypoallergenic?"

"Do I sound dead to you?" Dean rolls his eyes. "Yeah, she is. And cute, too. Black, and it's got whiskers. Responds to 'Cas'."

"Figures." Sam grins, audibly. Kid's always been an animal person - he's probably going to be asking for pictures all the time now. "It sounds pretty similar. So what, you say Cas, and both the cat and human come up to you?"

"Neither of them come up to me, cause neither of them's fond of moving. Big Cas ignores me until I make it like I'm dying, and Small Cas still doesn't really care." Dean laughs. "But I'm going to try and work up to it."

"Good luck." Sam says to that, before clearing his throat. "You should finish moving your socks in, Dean." There's a pause. "Thank you for listening to me about the quarantine thing, I guess. And staying safe."

Dean's first instinct is to immediately dismiss the sentiment, but then he decides not to. And settles for, "You too, Sammy. And thank you for the move-in-with-Cas advice."

Sam lets out a soft, "Yeah."

"But if you tell me what to do again," Dean adds, right after. "And try to threaten me with cheap flight tickets to Kansas? I'm not fucking giving in."

"And you're welcome for the caring about you." Sam retorts, and Dean rolls his eyes a second time.

"That's my job."

"Yeah, right."

"Just shut your face. Smartass." Dean can't contain his smile, in spite of himself. "Stay inside, okay? I've got Gabriel's eyes on you." That's Cas's stepbrother, also in Stanford, and Dean's not really used him yet - but he really could. Dude's sorta obsessed with Sam.

"I -" Sam huffs. "Jerk."

Dean grins. "Bitch."

The phone clicks, and Sam's gone. Dean picks up the last box - it's pretty light, so he props it on his hip and uses a free hand to slam Baby's door shut, and walks into the building he's going to spend (at least) the next three weeks in.

*

"Pizza's on it's way." Cas says from the couch, first thing as Dean enters and shuts the door behind him, setting the box on the floor.

He can't get a normal greeting fucking ever in these parts - but he doesn't really pay attention to it, because every braincell which isn't involved in keeping him alive and standing, fixates all at once, on the scene which beholds him.

He's obviously seen Cas plenty of times before - probably more keenly than he should've been seeing him, to be fair - but this is different. It's like seeing Cas in his natural habitat.

He's in the middle of the couch - typical roommate-lacking behavior - with bare feet propped up on two of Dean's boxes, like there wasn't any furniture around before Dean moved in. And in his collarless bee-patterned shirt and pyjamas which match the brown throw pillows, it's basically like he's dissolved into the couch under the weight of Catsanova who's settled on his tummy, with his hands around her, petting. His hair's enough of a mess that he could've had a reverse-Jonathan-Van-Ness moment by himself when Dean went downstairs for the last time, and his eyes are glued to the TV screen even when he speaks to Dean, and then proceeds to keep up a soft, toddler-voice conversation with his cat.

Holy shit.

Dean loves him.

This is going to be so hard.

"I changed out of my jeans," Cas adds, not even slightly in Dean's direction, per se. "I know you wanted to go out earlier, but it's Catsanova's dinner time now, and I was wondering if the three of us could just eat together. And watch The Middle." The last part, he directs to Dean, eyes wide and curious.

"Uh." Dean says, eloquently. "Sure."

The Middle's exactly the kind of thing Dean should've expected Cas would watch. It's sappy and sweet, and revolves around a hilariously dysfunctional family, and it's half ways to a sitcom and Dean can clearly imagine them bingeing through all of it - piled on the couch with the cat on Cas's lap, and he's still in the middle cause Dean really doesn't mind squeezing on his left as long as their shoulders brush and knees touch, and they're having pizza and Cas is in ratty graphic tees, and -

Alternatively, this is going to be a little bit perfect.

"I'll go change as well." Dean rubs the back of his neck, scanning the room for his bag which contained a set of clothes in case he got too lazy to unpack. As had happened.

"Are you going to be needing any of these?" Cas draws his attention to the two boxes he's got his feet on, by wiggling his toes.

"Nah." Dean checks the labels. "There won't be any pyjamas in DVDs or Boo -" He stops. That's supposed to be Books. "Boo?" Dean repeats, frowning.

"Catsanova likes scratching letters off of words which make them more adorable. Don't you, Catsanova?" Cas grins, running his hand through her fur as he talks about her. She doesn't really pay attention to it. "Say Boo again for us, Dean."

Dean fails to resist the blush. "Screw you. And do you always say her full name, like, all the time? I get that it's funny - or punny, or whatever," Castiel beams at that bit. "But it's kind of a mouthful."

"An earful, you mean." Cas muses.

Dean shrugs, because he's stuck trying to rein in the overpowering affection he feels for this messy, gorgeous guy, who always addresses his cat by her full name, and lets him move in for quarantine. "Just call her Nova or something. She's smart, she'll get it."

"But her name's Catsanova." Cas clarifies, as if it wasn't clear to Dean before.

"Your name's Castiel, Cas."

"I blame you for that."

"Sure you do, Happy Meal."

Cas scowls, not giving Dean more material to work with, and silently going back to watching the TV. "Spoilsport." Dean grins. "Isn't that what he is, Catsanova?"

She, once again, doesn't pay any real attention to them, but Cas's lips quirk up in a smile. They're done discussing nicknames for the cat apparently, so he moves on. "You can freshen up in my bathroom right now. There's no towels in the other one yet."

"Roger that."

Dean picks up his duffel and sets off for Cas's room. He's been to this apartment plenty of times, before. On his way, he passes what's going to be his room - previously, Cas's study slash storage, and takes a detour.

It's the same size as Cas's room, with smaller windows and grey curtains, and looks pretty comfortable, though Dean's more of a spend-all-day-in-the-living-room sorta guy. It's got wardrobes and shelves, for when it's morning and Dean resumes the elaborate routine of unpacking, and a desk at the side, and - oh, fucking hell.

Dean flings his duffel on the chair, which is the only place to sit in the entire room, - and marches out. "Cas!"

For once, even Catsanova reacts to him, jumping down from Cas, and Cas looks downright alarmed when Dean storms into the living room. "What happened?"

"Where the hell's your futon?"

"Oh." Cas pauses. Dean waits, impatiently for an answer, which seems to come to Cas fairly quick, bringing in its wake, a horrified expression of remembrance. "I lent it to Kelly."

"Then," Dean fixes Cas with an accusing glare. If he were standing, that would've been a finger jabbed at his chest. "Where the hell am I going to sleep?"

"Oh."

"Well?"

Cas blinks. And quietly declares - for the benefit of Catsanova, probably, because the two humans already know, and are staring at each other in despair. "I may not have completely thought this through."

*

"I call right."

"Right-now-right, or on-the-bed-right?" Cas confirms, voice coming in from the bathroom where he's brushing his teeth.

"You're on my right when we're sleeping." Dean declares, stifling a scowl. It's not like he's trying to be rude, but he really hadn't expected any of this. He hasn't expected to finish moving in at nine, and dinner at ten, and then proceed to sleep in Cas's bed for the first night he's here.

("I'm so sorry, this is completely on me -" Cas had kept apologizing, with blue eyes in full-on Bambi stare. "I can't believe I forgot about giving away the futon! I'm such a -"

"Whatever, Cas." Dean had frowned back, rolling his eyes. "S'not that big a deal. I'll take the couch."

"Of course not." Cas had looked horrified. "It's cold out here, and my couch is too small - it's just a three-seater. You're way taller than three horizontal butts, plus twice the armrest." Dean had given him a look for that one, and if he wasn't annoyed, he would've been laughed.

"So?"

"You're obviously sleeping in my bed."

"Well, you're taller than three butts too." Dean had sighed, still annoyed - but it slowly subsiding to some sort of thrill which was definitely associated with getting to sleep in Cas's bed.

"I know." Cas had sighed back, a little grim. "I'll just sleep with you.")

Now, Cas exits the bathroom, and walks straight to the bed, setting the pillows right. It's a King-size, so they're going to have enough space, really, but Dean's a little skeptic about getting under the covers first. So instead of climbing on his side, and settling in like his body really wants to, he lingers around, rummaging through his bag even though he has everything he needs.

His phone's plugged in next to his bed, and he's just in a t-shirt and pajamas now. Sure, he usually sleeps in just his boxers, but he has a fair idea of how ridiculous that'd be when Cas, right next to him, sleeps in a full, adorable ensemble.

And that's the last time he's letting himself think Cas - or his bee-themed outfits are adorable.

"I'm going to go put Catsanova to bed." Cas announces, with a smile. "To couch, to be honest. She sleeps inside the couch and I think she likes to think it's her very own hiding spot."

"So that's why I'm not sleeping there?" Dean throws back, stifling a yawn. Somehow, it's eleven, and that's not exactly late, but on a day you've moved into your best friend's apartment, and made friends with his moody cat, it feels pretty late. "Cause the three-butt analogy wasn't your best move, buddy."

"You guessed it." Cas returns, flatly. "I made us sleep in the same bed so that Catsanova's sleep routine didn't get disrupted. Now, how about you actually sleep, Dean?" There's one of those I-know-more-than-you-think-I-do smiles on his face. "You're clearly tired."

"'M not sleeping without you." Dean can't hold in the yawn this time, and it comes out garbling the last bits of his sentence and causing Cas to stare at him in a horrified kind of fascination.

"Before you." He corrects, his cheeks burning, when he actually hears himself. "That'd just be weird."

"Not at all," Cas shrugs. "But sure. Just come with me to Catsanova's night couch."

"Whose couch is it in the morning?"

Cas doesn't really think about it. "Hers, though she settles for indirect use of it's luxury, via our laps."

Dean nods thoughtfully, and follows Cas to the living room. The cat is already all fed, of course, and doesn't really seem keen on playing with them - probably because, and Cas told him this once, cats tended to have bedtime installed in their cat brains. Dean may or may not think that's adorable.

Catsanova curls up in the middle of the couch, much like her (nick)-namesake, and Dean's breath hitches when with a slight purr, puts her head on her paws. She's not a kitten, Cas had mentioned, but she's still so small, that she fits on just one cushion, and with her tail drawn up close, and squinting eyes, she's the cutest thing Dean's ever seen.

"Isn't this somehow better than even the best youtube cat videos?" Cas whispers, eyes turned adoringly at his cat.

"I don't watch -"

Cas gives him a look.

"Okay, yeah, I do, and it is." Dean gives in, rolling his eyes at being called out. "Maybe not better than the kitten falling asleep in the middle of dinner though."

Cas raises his eyebrows, impressed. "You're not wrong."

"But a close second?" Dean offers.

Cas smiles, softly, straight at Dean. He's sitting cross-legged on the floor, with hands around his ankles, and Dean's on the low settee behind him, staring at both the cat and Cas, lazily smiling too.

It feels perfect. In fact, he's so physically exhausted and mentally blissed out that in the moment, that he's not even freaking out about the fact that after this, he and Cas are going to go sleep in the same bed.

(In his right senses, he would've been. When it got suggested - or pretty much, declared, he couldn't have put up a big argument, because if Cas could be so cool about it, how weird would it have been if he wasn't? Why shouldn't he be, indeed?

Except for the fact that he's in love with Castiel and growing increasingly aware of it as the day lives by, there's absolutely no other reason, he's sure.

So after a few weakly presented excuses, including his insistance that it isn't necessary - "Dean, of course it is!" - and bringing back the couch solution - "Dean, why would you sleep on the couch for my mistake?" - he'd given in.

He just couldn't come around to the point that he really isn't sure he'll be able to survive being next to Cas on a bed for an entire night, and figures that it didn't occur to Cas either.

Because of course it fucking didn't.)

"Okay, then." Cas lets out, standing up from the ground swiftly, though Dean holds a hand out. His voice holds a tinge of we're done here, like a superhero in a mission, and Dean grins, in spite of himself. "Let's go."

Since 'putting Catsanova to bed' apparently only includes sitting in front of the couch and staring at her in adoration while she falls asleep and eventually snuggles so close to the back of the couch that she ends up rolling inside, as Dean has now learned, Dean gets up too.

"How'd you like it?" Cas sounds proud.

"Her sleep routine? She did all of it herself." Dean tells him, as the both of them drag themselves to Cas's room. Even Dean knows the house well enough to not have to think about it. "I don't know what I expected, but that wasn't it."

"Did you imagine cuddles and lullabies?" Cas laughs.

"You built it up, buddy."

Cas shrugs nonchalantly, as they reach the bed, and Dean's too tired at this point to even care who's getting in first. All he notices is when they're both in - Cas half-sitting up, legs stretched out under the comforter, and Dean lying on his side as he speaks to him.

"All you did was watch her sleep." He mutters, not really thinking anymore. Sleep is fast trailing his heels, and well, he's stopped running from it.

"I like watching over her." Cas answers, easily. "And it's a sign of trust that she lets me, to be fair. Cats aren't shy, but -"

"Territorial?"

"I guess."

"Huh." Dean closes his eyes. The pillow under his head is the perfect percentage of soft, and it's warm inside the comforter, as compared to the cold in the room. He pulls it up to his neck, trying to tuck himself in without making it obvious.

There's a pause.

"I didn't want to sleep before because," Dean confesses. "Sometimes you look at me." He likes it, but hopefully that doesn't come out in his voice.

There's a weight shift in the mattress, as Cas lies down too. Straight on his back, hand curved above his head, staring at the ceiling.

"It's weird." Dean mumbles. "Kinda."

Cas says, "Okay." But Dean's already asleep, slightly huffing when he exhales, and so there's nothing said in return, and Cas reaches to turn off the lap and goes to sleep, too.

*

Thing is, falling asleep when you're tired is easy. Staying asleep when you're anxious is not.

Dean blinks awake, with a startled breath, and takes a beat to process his surroundings. Gauging by the darkness in the room, it's a long way till sunrise. He stretches drowsily, an unconscious habit of getting up, and his hand nudges against something.

It feels like muscle, and hair, and turns out to be Cas's forearm, because as soon as his eyes get adjusted to the minimal light - he discovers Cas is right there.

They've both migrated towards the middle in their sleep - more Cas than him, Dean assumes quickly, and are still facing each other. When Dean draws his hand back, folding it under the comforter again, there's a few inches between them everywhere - yet suddenly, he's extremely awake, and aware, and losing it.

Cas is quietly asleep, features completely free of tension - with his face smoothed over in sleep, and lips slightly parted. He's unfairly beautiful, and practically a head-jerk away from Dean's pillow, and it's crazy how much it's all getting to Dean.

Even asleep, he's driving Dean nuts.

He doesn't even know what he wants to do - keep staring at this picture of serenity, force himself back to sleep, or something entirely different, but was he does is turn around.

He turns a hundred eighty degrees, keeping his eyes closed, and finds himself facing Cas's bookshelf.

The easiest way to deal with this burst of emotion is to sleep, he convinces himself, and maybe he'll forget about this in the morning. Maybe he'll fall asleep trying to read the titles of the books in front of him, and forget about waking up to Cas in front of him, dreamy even when dreaming, and forget about being overpowered by just about everything in that moment, as he is right now.

He just needs to go back to sleep.

Dean's repeated this to himself enough times to actually be drifting off to sleep, when he feels an arm randomly fall around his waist.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Cas, still asleep, has apparently decided to put his hand around Dean as if he were a fluffy stuffed toy or something, and it's landed ridiculously close to his abdomen, and his toes curl, and he squeezes his eyes shut.

And if Dean inadvertently pushes back towards the warmth radiating from Cas, and ends up little-spooning him because he's somehow backed up until he's reached Cas - then that's just a whole other thing he's never going to think about.

He finally goes back to sleep, not having to try and read the book titles at all, because apparently Cas hugging Dean to himself like a goddamn pillow, is all his fucking insomniac brain's ever needed.

(Although, he's never sharing a bed with Cas again, because he's sure he couldn't survive another such night.)

*

Catsanova wakes Cas up at six, meowing stubbornly at the door because she doesn't care about Dean's private, middle-of-the-night freakout as long as Cas gets up to pay her due attention, and Dean wakes alone at nine, and ends up pretending he's asleep until Cas comes with coffee.

He doesn't look at Dean different or at all, while climbing on bed with the tray - and Dean definitely doesn't notice that he doesn't, because he's obviously not paying attention.

And he obviously doesn't care.

[missblissy]

Rebirth (Chapter Five)

Alastor X Human!Reader ((Reincarnation!AU)) 

Prologue || One || Two || Three || Four || Five

Tagged: ((You can ask to be added to the tagged list!!)) @alastors-bambi @peachesandkats​ @riintss @destiny-in-the-universe​ @dadzawas-eyebags @daedaliaaan @putridjoy @shieldagentofthemonth @originofthedragonjim @animals4ever527 @jexinqq @chaotic-pansexual @geekin-about-alastor @keenhumanoidduckeagle @fafefae @honeydrops01010 @itz-kira @xoceanicgemzx @the-monochrome-jester @holdnyvaseline @temmieboi04 @ultimately-purrrfect @lukatherat 

You could still smell the herbs from a few days ago. You were in your kitchen making yourself something to eat. It had been almost two days and there wasn’t a single sign of Alastor or Eon. Your mind was busy with other thoughts anyways. Your father’s surgery went well and he was on a slow recovery. Hopefully, it helped with his condition, but you doubt it would slow down his one-way ticket to the grave. You took a small bite of the PB&J that you made and suddenly you didn’t feel so hungry anymore. 

Instead, you wanted to break down and cry. You leaned on your counter, looking down at the sandwich as tears began to well in your eyes. So much shit has happened these past few days. You moved and now lived by yourself for the first time in your life, you were going to college at the same time while looking for a new job, and demon decided it was going to drop an entire shit load of problems that didn’t even involve you. Just your soul. And on top of that, your father was dying. It broke your heart when you waited with your mother for him to get out of surgery. Your father was a strong and proud man and to see him wither away into a husk, a shadow of what he used to be... It was all too much. You couldn’t take it anymore.

The sobs came quickly. You crouched on the floor behind the counter and held your knees as you cried away. You felt as though the entire world was against you. You were thankful for the few people you had. 

You didn’t want to feel bad anymore so you did your best to dry your tears. As you stood back up you saw something on your counter that wasn’t there before, “Huh?” Next to your pathetic sandwich now laid a thick leather-bound book with a sticky note taped to the cover. You were ready to roll your eyes and dumb the book into the trash, you already knew it was from Alastor.

That’s when you felt the hairs on the back of your neck start to rise while a familiar dry static energy began to fester within your home, “Go away!” You yelled, “I’m not your wife! I don’t know you! And you don’t know me!” You were talking to the air, but you knew Alastor was here. You could feel his energy. You could even feel his eyes on you, even if he wouldn’t show himself and choose to hide, “Just because you could guess my favorite food and color doesn’t mean I’m still your wife! So what if we have similar taste in stuff! I’m not her! You don’t know anything about me. You don’t know my family, my friends, you don’t even know my birthday! You can’t name a single thing about me other than what you can guess off the top of your head!”

You wanted to cry again and when a tear dripped down your cheek, you tell he was gone. The static fizzled away into still air and the feeling of eyes on your vanished as well. The book was still there though. You kept telling yourself to just throw it out but another part of you wanted to see just what kind of gift Alastor had left you.

You sniffled and ran the back of your hand over your eyes to clean away the tears. You pulled the book into view and read the note. At first you couldn’t believe it, but... Alastor had very... very... pretty handwriting. It was perfect and drawn with pen and ink well. 

The note said: 

        I think I went about this all wrong, (Y/n). I should have given this to you in the beginning. I’m sincerely sorry. This used to belong to your former self. It’s your diary. To unlock it, you must use your blood. Just a pinprick should work. I hope this helps and answers the questions you’ve been looking for.

       - A   :) 

Was this for real? And he had to just add the smiley face? Ugh... You rolled your eyes and looked over the book. It didn’t even have a lock on it, so why the hell was he talking about using your blood?  When you opened up the book, you couldn’t believe your eyes. Every page was yellow and blank. Nothing was in the damn book! Was he just playing a sick joke on you?

There was only one way to find out. You flipped deep within the book and towards the middle. You took a kitchen knife from your silverware drawer. You cringed in pain as you pricked the tip of your finger and watched the blood pitter-patter onto the pages. Nothing happened at first and you were ready to burn the book and get some more herbs to make sure Alastor didn’t come back.

But after a minute or so your blood soaked into the page and words began to appear. The looked like they were written in gold. The ink was metallic and shiny. You brushed a finger over the words and felt the little rise and fall of the ink and space between each letter. It took a second for the page to fill with words. Okay... maybe he wasn’t lying and this was your past self’s diary. You went ahead and began reading the passage you had randomly opened up too. 

1939, December 29th:

     This castle I call my home is nothing but chains holding me down. I have spent the last... some 2,000 years at this post. I didn’t know that serving as the Gatekeeper of Hell was a “forever” kind of deal. I guess that's what you get for letting Lucifer be your boss. I wish every day that I could leave this castle. But soon again I will! The seventh year of my new sentence is coming up and I will be free to roam for another 365 days. Then for the next 6 years, I will be trapped in this castle again. 

     At least I have Alastor. This empty castle isn’t so empty with him around. He fills the hallways with songs and music, with smells of food I never knew existed. He makes me laugh, something I haven’t done in a long time. He makes me smile and when I cry he doesn’t run in fear like everyone else in my afterlife. 

     It’s been six years since I made that life-changing deal with an even bigger Devil than Lucifer. It’s been six years since Alastor manifested at the gates of Hell and offered me the salvation and freedom I craved. No, he wasn’t the deal maker. The spirit that was attached to his soul was. Eon. I sold what was left of my soul to him just so I could see the world again. 

     In just a few days I’ll be able to walk out of this castle and go where ever I want again. The first thing I’m doing is marry Alastor at the top of a pile of corpses that belong to every enemy I’ve ever made. I can’t wait to taste the blood and tears of them all. I will kill all of those fools who dared to call me a cry baby, to call me weak, to say my emotions meant nothing. Every time I shed a tear I turn into a monster and monster is what they will see. I will rip their heads from their necks. I will take their hearts and squeeze every drop of blood until there is nothing left. And I will do this with Alastor by my side, cheering me on as I finally get the justice and revenge I’ve so deserved.  

The words started to fade slowly and disappear again. You couldn’t believe what you were looking at. Once the passage was finally gone and the pages were blank again... You slammed the book closed. This was a dangerous thing. A tempting thing. 

It called to you like a song in the night. You could feel your entire soul reach out and try and open the book back up and read every word. Something about this book filled you with fear, curiosity and something else you couldn’t quite put together.

After several moments of fighting with your own thoughts, you decided that you’d read some more. You flipped the book back open. You choose a spot very close to the end and pricked your finger again. The blood splashed onto the page and soaked in much quicker than last time.

1996, February 4th: 

     Today I laid waste to another sector of Hell. When I came to my castle home, Alastor was waiting for me. I know I write about him to much, but he is everything that matters to me. This entire book could easily be mistaken for a stalker. Good thing I cursed it to never open for anyone, not even Alastor. I love him, but even I must keep my secrets too. That and I don’t want him to know how much I obsess over him. 

     For starters, it’s our anniversary. He always tells me, “I never wanted to get married! I never thought I would! Marriage was a waste of time in my opinion -Blah Blah Blah-” Same old stuff, then he’d leap into some musical number about how I changed that and how much he loves me and how happy he is to call me his wife. 56 years later and he’s still the same dork he’s always been. Sure, he likes to act tough, mean, scary and evil, but deep down inside that psychopath... is another even bigger and weirder psychopath. But that’s what I love about him. He’s such a strange creature. But I love him. 

     I love that stupid little tail of his that wags when he sees me or how he’d flip his tail all the way up as he danced around the room. I love that he chooses to sleep just because it’s a pastime I enjoy. Though he’ll always remind me, “You know, we don’t have to sleep, right?” Yeah, but I still liked to cling on to my humanity. And most of all... I love when he cries with me. It’s so hard for me to fight my black tears and to not let them stain my face. For so long, I never saw an emotion escape him. He even thought it was weak of me to be so emotional and we got into many arguments about it. However, he saw that it was just my nature to be like this. Now that we’ve spent 5 decades together, he shares all my emotions. The high and especially the lows. He’ll weep, shed tears, and tell me it’s okay. He’d kiss every single black tear away even when I turned into a monster... I have to remember though, I don’t turn into a monster. It’s just my natural demonic form that I suppress and hide and hold back. Alastor says he loves it more than the my... human look I take on. Maybe one day I’ll be strong enough to love myself the way he loves me. 

     I know... I know... I need to shut up about this man. But I can’t. He’s a person deep down inside. A messed up one, but still a person. He knows my pain, he’s seen my struggles. His life wasn’t much different from mine. We were both... innocent for so long until a darkness we couldn’t control grew from our pain and suffering. We joke about how we’d have gone to Heaven if only things were different... Is it bad for me to wish they were sometimes? What if we met when we were alive and still human? Would he still have become a cannibal? Would I still have committed suicide? If only we could have been there for each other sooner rather than later... 

The words started to fade again just as you had finished the passage. This book... It was going to answer a lot of questions. You felt an unknown connection to it. You slowly closed the book, deciding that for you’d put it away for now. You weren’t going to throw it away either. 

Something about the way your past self wrote about Alastor, about how much she loved him, it slowly changed your opinion of him. It got you thinking about how Alastor must have felt to have lost you. He spent 22 years searching for you, looking all over the planet and heaven above just so he could be with you again. It was romantic in a twisted way. You still couldn’t bring yourself to feel much for the demon other than anguish and pity. You felt sorry for him because you were not the same person. And you were beginning to learn that, yes, there were many things similar about you and your past self, such as your name and your looks, but you never had the same struggles.

You walked over to your bookshelf and squeezed the large leather book into a spot that barely fit. You had to get to your classes soon. You really didn’t have the energy to do anything and you were incredibly depressed. Your heart thumped loudly in your chest as you looked at the spine of the diary. You wanted to reach out and grab and keep reading and the thought of leaving it at home oddly upset you more. You knew you couldn’t bring it with you though. Not many people would be too pleased to see some girl cutting her finger dozens of times to read some magical book. You’d probably get thrown in some kind of crazy house. 

So, with a sigh, you tore yourself away from the book’s gaze and grabbed your bag. As you got to the door, you took one look back at the book. You stood there for a second longer than you should have then turned and gone out the door. 

_______________________________________________

 1933, March 3rd: 

     I couldn’t believe it. He’s here. I never thought he’d make it here but he is and he’s wandering around the castle. Alastor had finally died. He didn’t even wander through purgatory. He manifested before my eyes just in front of the gates. 

     I already love him but I will not say that allowed or anywhere else in this book. I can’t help but love him because he is letting me make a deal with the deadliest deal maker to have ever wandered to this side of the planet. 

     Eon. A spirit not even from this world, universe or dimension. He’s from a world so distant and far from this one that we know very little about him, other than that people wall him The World Destroyer. Apparently, it’s Eon’s goal to consume every soul in every universe and dimension. Lucifer warned me that making a deal with this creature would end in horrible ways. It didn’t seem that it ended that bad for Alastor, seeing as he was the one who summoned Eon here and sold his soul for the chance at unlimited power in the afterlife. 

     None of that matters now. I’ve made up my mind. I want to leave this castle and I want the ability to control my afterlife and what happens to me. I must go, Alastor is waiting for me and I can not wait to leave this castle wage war against all of those fools who laughed at me, all over those Overlords who think they're better than me. Alastor just wants to kill and feed souls to Eon, he wants to create chaos and topple over those in power so he can make his mark among the legends.

     I want revenge. 

Your eyes were heavy, they even had little dark bags under them. You had spent the last three hours reading the diary. Your finger was a dark purple color and you felt light-headed. You sat in your living room at the edge of your couch.

Almost two weeks have passed now since Alastor disappeared and left you this book. There was nothing coming from him. Normally you could tell when he was hiding somewhere in a dark corner or in the shadows. You’d feel his static energy wave off him, but there was none of that. Nothing. Not a single haunting. Had he finally given up? You weren’t sure. You didn’t think so. You cleansed your home but Vanderlinde said that you’d have to do it every couple of days, which of course you didn’t. You completely forgot to do that the second Alastor left the book for you. 

The book, however, was everything you may have asked for. You learned how Alastor had given everything to your past self. He loved you more than anything and you wrote about that often. He grew a rose garden around the castle your past self was trapped in every six years just so you’d smile. He murdered and tortured those who wronged you. He’d cook all of your favorite foods, even if they were mostly sugary pastries and candies, which you found out he hated. You learned so much about Alastor. He loved cooking, singing, dancing, making people smile and entertaining others to the point of laughter. He drank coffee every morning with you on a balcony overlooking the little empty Kingdom the two of you shared. He’d stand from the tallest tower and sing love songs to you while you worked at the Gates of Hell. He taught you to play the piano, how to better defeat your enemies, how to use Voodoo magic against the living and even the dead, he shared stories of his life and family and home, his dreams that never came true and his hopes that all but died until he met you.

You quickly learned that not every passage in the diary would show itself to you. You covered several pages with your blood but nothing ever happened. The only passages that would reveal themselves were the ones that mentioned Alastor. You weren't sure this was his doing or not because the book said that even Alastor couldn’t open it. 

You were very dazed and confused, you lost a lot of blood in this process. One more passage, you told yourself, then I’ll stop. Suddenly there was a knock at your door. You almost jumped out of your skin, “It’s open,” you called, knowing exactly who it already was. 

Sage kicked open the door and rushed in, “Where is he!?” She yelled as her eyes darted around the room, “Where is that talk show shit lord!?” She just got back from the hunt she was on. She texted you this morning that she’d be over as soon as possible

Maybe it was the lack of blood or the massive wave of depression that’s been with you for the last two weeks, but you couldn’t bother to get up from the couch. You just closed the heavy book and muttered, “He’s not here anymore,” Why did you sound so defeated when you said that?

Sage was a little stunned by your state, “Are you okay?” She closed the door behind her and came to sit next to you on the couch. She was your best friend, more so than you were with Vanderlinde. However, you felt some kind of betrayal that she never told you about this huge secret part of her life. Ya know, the whole demon hunter slash witch thing? Yeah, that kind of upset you. 

“I’m fine. Just... a lot is going on right now,” You confessed, “Not so much the demon haunting my house thing. Alastor hasn’t shown up since Van and I cleansed this place. It’s more so... just life and shit,” It wasn’t a total lie. You were stressed about your father and still not having a job. Your bank account was starting to get dangerously low. 

That’s when Sage noticed the book in your lap. She pointed to it, asking, “What’s that?” 

“Just a diary I’ve been keeping,” Again, not a total lie, “Nothing cool,” 

She didn’t say anything for a second and you wondered if she knew you were trying to cover up something. Eventually, Sage just shrugged and said, “Okay, well, I brought some stuff that might help you out if that dumb ass shows his stupid face again,” Sage took the backpack off her shoulders and set it down next to your feet, “There’s even a little guide book in there that I made for you. Basic magic stuff that anyone can do. Rituals, cleansings, crystals, herbs, blessed water, and bones. Pretty much everything you’ll need,” 

“Thanks,” You mumbled as you pulled the bag closer to you. You didn’t think you’d need any of that stuff seeing as Alastor kind of gave up on bothering you. The first sign of a fight and he turns tail. From what the diary told you- that was very out of character for him. You had a feeling he’d be back but you weren’t sure when or for what, “Hey- actually, I have question,” You peered at your friend. There was something bubbling in your mind that you had been wondering about. You knew the internet wouldn’t have this answer so maybe your friend did. 

She gave a small smile and said, “Okay, shoot,” She seemed more than happy to help. 

“Um... Would you actually know how to... summon a demon?”

[bamby0304]

Apple of my Eye- Ch.17

Series Masterlist

Summary: When Sam and Dean were pulled back into their world, you were left behind. Stuck in the hustle bustle of Hollywood life, you have no choice but to play along, leaving almost all of your old life behind. Seven years later, when a rip in time and space opens up, you are finally able to go home… but you don’t go alone.

A/N: Thank you @moonlitskinwalker for helping me out :)

Warnings: Angst. Fluff. Smut. Unprotected sex. Explicit language.

Bamby

“What if Jack never comes back?”

“He will.”

“What if he finds a new home?”

“He won’t.”

“We found a new home… he could, too.”

“He’ll be back,” you assured Dakota as she followed you around the bunker as you carried folded laundry to everyone’s rooms.

She sighed, “How do you know? Sam and De are worried about him. Castiel is looking for him. How do you know he’ll be back?” she asked as you set a pile of flannel shirts on Sam’s bed. “How do you know he’ll be okay?”

Plopping the clothes basket on the floor, you knelt down in front of her. “Dean and Sam and strong. They’ve saved the world a hundred times, and they will save it a hundred more. I know that, because I’ve seen it. And I know Jack will be back because Sam and Dean care about him, he’s family, and they won’t stop until he’s safe and sound.”

She looked down at the ground, still unconvinced. “How do you know Sam and De will be okay?”

“Because I believe in them.” You reached out to lift her chin so she’d meet your gaze. “Do you trust me?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Then trust me when I say, everyone is going to be fine.”

Sam had given you the keys to one of the cars in the bunker’s garage. Keeping you and Dakota busy, you headed into town to check out the school. Classes were starting soon, and even though you felt like you should discuss it with Dean, you decided to enrol Dakota then and there.

“You excited about your new school?” you asked as you drove back to the bunker.

Dakota shrugged, looking out the window. “Will I have to go every day?”

“Not on the weekends.”

“Will I be there all day?”

“Not all day, no. You will have to wake up a little earlier, but then Dean will drive you to school.”

Gasping with excitement, she spun in her seat to face you. “Will he take me in Baby?”

“Probably, yeah.” You nodded. “But there are rules. No driving fast, and you have to be strapped in.”

“We can’t go fast sometimes?”

She was Dean’s girl, through and through. The pie, the music, the fashion, the love for cars. People use to make a few comments, especially Jared. He would mostly joke, but some people were concerned you were taking work home, or letting Dakota watch the show. No one suspected the truth, and why would they?

“I’m not going to say no, but I’m not going to say yes,” you answered. “Maybe on special occasions. But safety comes first.”

“Safety first.” She nodded firmly.

As the conversation died, you turned your attention back to the road, focusing on getting you both home. You wondered if Dean would mind, that you enrolled her in school. That made you wonder how you were going to explain your situation.

Dakota didn’t know Dean was her father. For most of her life, he hadn’t been around, hell he didn’t even know about her. If people figured it out, if you told people, it could confuse things. You weren’t even sure if you wanted Dakota to know yet.

“Hey Mum?”

“Yeah honey?”

“You think De and Sammy are okay?”

“I’m sure they’re just fine.”

“Hi.”

You turned on your heels in the library and came face to face with Dean. Without thought, you threw your arms around him in a tight hug, pulling him close.

“Thank God.”

“Nah, just Smash.”

“Huh?”

He chuckled lightly, shaking his head as he pulled back. “Nothing. Don’t worry about it.” Looking over his shoulder, he gestured to the doorway that led to the bedrooms. “Dakota in bed?”

Sighing, you nodded. “Took a while, but I eventually managed to get her to sleep.”

“Rough day?”

“Understatement,” you scoffed as he grabbed your hand and started to lead you towards the kitchen. “When Dakota woke up and you guys were gone… she freaked out. I had to sit her down and explain that you were out for work again. But you didn’t come back when I thought you would, and she could see me getting nervous, so…”

“Things got messy. Didn’t go as planned,” he explained. “And then there was this girl.”

You stopped in your tracks and looked at him.

“Not like that.”

“I didn’t think like that.”

“Then why are you looking at me?”

“Because you didn’t call or text, and I got worried, and now I’m finding out you were with some girl.”

“It wasn’t like that,” he insisted.

“And I’m not saying it was, I’m just saying… why didn’t you call, or text?”

“Because I was dealing with a demon, and then I was dealing with a girl who is on the run because she sold her soul.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” He nodded as you both started walking again. “The demon that had her contract is dead, but we don’t know if that means she’s safe or that someone else will be coming to collect. We’re hoping it’s the first one.”

Entering the kitchen, you spotted Sam sitting at the table, looking defeated.

Your hand slipped from Dean’s before his brother noticed. “Hey.” Walking over to Sam, you slid into the seat across from him. “You okay?”

He sighed, “Yeah, not really. Not exactly the best day, you know?”

Dean walked over to the fridge and pulled out three beers. “Well, it's not the worst,” he noted, opening the drinks. “We did save somebody. That felt good.”

“Yeah. Yeah, it did. But…” Sam took one of the beers as Dean offered it to him, “back to square one with Jack.”

“We'll figure something else out,” Dean assured him as he took the seat beside you. “And if that doesn't work, then we'll move on to next, and then whatever's after that. We just keep working, 'cause it's what we do.”

“It feels really good to hear you talk like that again.”

“I'll drink to that.” Dean reached his bottle out.

The three of you clinked your drinks together before taking a sip.

Putting his beer back on the table, Sam looked to you. “So, how was your day?” he asked with a knowing gleam in his eyes.

“Oh God… I thought I was going to have track you guys down and take Dakota to you could tell her you were going back home. I managed to distract her with the school, though.”

Dean pulled his drink away from his lips. “School?”

You looked to him guiltily. “Yeah… I enrolled her into the local school.” Before he could comment, you hurried to add, “And I know I should have talk to you first, but I had to do it. School is starting soon. I don’t want her to be behind. And I know you’re her dad, but I didn’t want you to confuse things.”

He reached out to rest a hand on your thigh. “It’s okay.”

“Wait… what?” You eyes darted from Dean to Sam and then back. “What?”

“It’s okay.” He shrugged. “Do I wish I could have been there? Yes, but I wish I could have been there for a lot of things. What’s more important is that I will be there. From now on, I will be there for her.” He gave you that smile that made your heart swell. One of those rare smiles where his walls dropped and he didn’t hide anything. “I’m just really glad you’re staying.”

Unable to sleep, you rolled onto your back to stare up at the ceiling. You couldn’t stop thinking about the day’s events, and Dean’s words.

He was okay with you enrolling Dakota in school without him… because he was happy you were staying.

Sure, the news wasn’t surprising. You knew he wanted you both to stay. You knew he wanted to be part of her life. You knew he wanted you close. What did surprise you, however, was how that made you feel.

It made your head whirl with realisations you’d been blind to for far too long. Dean wanting you both around made you realise that you wanted to stay. You wanted to be here with Dean and Sam. You missed your old life, and the small snippet of it that you’d experienced since coming back was not enough, but you’d had a taste and now you wanted more.

Throwing your blankets off with a sigh, you pulled yourself out of bed. The ground was cold under your bare feet, but you didn’t let that deter you. Slipping out of your room, making sure the coast was clear, you then ducked down the hallway and headed for Dean’s room.

Tiptoeing into his room, you closed the door behind you before leaning your back against it.

“Dean? You awake?”

A groan in the dark room was followed by a groggy, “Y/N?” There was some shuffling before his bedside lamp flicked on. You watched him lean on his elbow in bed, rubbing at his eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Okay…” He frowned at you, curiously. When you didn’t move, he pulled his sheets back. “Come on.”

Without a word, you hurried over and slipped under the blanket, snuggling in closer to him.

He jumped once your feet brushed his leg. “Son of a bitch! You’re freezing!”

“I just walked through the bunker half naked, Dean,” you noted, rolling onto your back to gesture at your lack of clothes- that consisted of panties and a flannel.

Dean’s eyes dragged their way up until he met your gaze. “If you woke me up in the middle of the night for a sneaky booty call… you have my attention.”

Grinning, you bit your lip and shook your head. “That’s not why I’m here. But it might be why I stay.” You gave him a wink.

“God, woman, you kill me,” he groaned, leaning in to press his lips to yours.

Before the kiss could deepen too far, however, you pushed at his shoulder. “Dean…”

“Mmm?” he hummed, trying to lean back in to catch your lips again.

“I want to stay.”

“Then stay, sweetheart.” He shrugged. “If you don’t want anyone to know, we’ll sneak you back out in the morning,” he told you before trying to lean in once more.

“No. Dean. I mean,” you looked up to meet his gaze, still pressing on his shoulder, “I want to stay here, in the bunker, with you, and Sam, and Cas, and Jack. I want to make this our home.”

He paused a moment before pulling back. “Really? You’re not just saying all of this for me, are you?”

“I’m not saying it for you, but part of it is because of you. Dakota deserves to be with her dad, and you deserve to get to know your daughter. I’ve always wanted that, and I don’t wanna take the chance away from either of you now that it’s here,” you admitted.

“You’ve always wanted that?”

Watching him carefully, you frowned ever so slightly. “What, did you think I was over there in the other world rejoicing that my child would grow up without their father? Did you think I was happy you never knew you were a dad?”

“No.” He shook his head. “But I always thought you moved on. And when I saw Dakota, before I knew she was mine, I kinda assumed you’d made a life for yourself over there.”

“I made a life for her, not me,” You corrected. “I never got over this place, and I never got over you. This is my home.”

Reaching out, he gently grasped your chin and brushed his thumb along your cheek. “I never got over you, either.”

This time you were the one to lean in, capturing his lips in a deep kiss. As you deepened it, he fell back into the pillows. You followed him, lifting your leg to straddle his hips which he was quick to grab. Holding you in place, he nipped at your bottom lip, pulling a moan from you.

“Dean...” Reaching between the two of you, you slipped your hand into his briefs and wrapped your fingers around his cock. “Need you.”

“Fuck,” he groaned. “Y/N.”

Pulling back, you watched his face contort with pleasure as you stroked and squeezed his cock, while your other hand pulled your panties to the side. His eyes were barely open, but were trained on your hands as you guided him to your slit.

Sliding down his cock until he was snug inside you, your hands clutched at his shirt. You felt so full, so perfectly and completely full. No one and nothing felt as good as Dean. It wasn’t just his size, but it was the feel of him. His warmth. His smell. His touch. His voice. Everything with Dean was just right.

His head fell back and lips parted as you rode him slowly. The peek of his tongue between his lips made you shudder, thoughts of what that mouth could do springing to mind. Pressing your hands on his chest, you rolled your hips, feeling him pulse inside you.

“Miss this. Miss you,” he grunted, fingers digging into your hips. “Never stopped wanting you. Never stopped loving you.”

Your movements faltered as you looked down at him with wide eyes.

There was a short moment before he realised what he said.

“Shit, Y/N-”

“Did you mean it?” you asked suddenly, cutting him off. “Do you mean it?”

Pausing a moment, he swallowed thickly before giving a sharp nod. “I mean it.”

You threw yourself at him, pressing your lips to his in a clumsy kiss as your hips began to move again. Picking up the pace, fueled by his revelation and admission, you chased your orgasm quickly, bringing him to his just as fast.

“Fu-” he grunted against your lips, squeezing your hips so tightly you were certain you’d bruise.

Pulling back, you looked down at him with lust darkened eyes. “Come, Dean. Wanna feel it. Wanna feel you.”

“Fuck me.” Grabbing the back of your head, he pulled you back down to his lips.

When you both came, it was on a cry. Lips smashed together, your sounds were muffled as he spilled inside you, twitching and shaking, clinging to you desperately. You bucked fisting his shirt as you rode out the waves from your high.

Once you caught your breath, you dropped to the bed with a content sigh. Dean rolled onto his side and watched you as your chest heaved. Smiling up at the ceiling, you concentrated on catching your breath.

“You gonna keep staring at me?” you asked, turning your head to look at him.

He was shining with sweat, and his chest was rising more rapidly than usual, but the look in his eyes didn’t hint at what you’d just done. Instead of looking thoroughly fucked, they looked down at you deep in thought.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

“Just wondering… if that was you hinting at a breeding kink.” A grin tugged on his lips.

Rolling your eyes, you shoved at his shoulder. “Shut up.”

“What? It’s perfectly fine. Hell, the thought of you like that,” he reached over to run a hand over your stomach, “kinda gets me hot.”

“Really?”

“Seriously.” Your eyes locked and he held your gaze. You could see the truth, the honestly in his words. “I missed a lot while you were gone, and I hate that I can’t take back time and make it right.”

“We’re here now. That’s what matters.”

“I know.” He nodded. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want all of that. Doesn’t mean…” He took a deep breath. “I love you.” When you opened your mouth, he cut you off. “You don’t have to say it. I don’t want you to feel like you have to say it back. But I do love you, and I want a million rugrats with you, Y/N. I want dozens of Dakotas running around, and I want to be there for every second of it.”

“Dean…”

“I know you just got back. I know things are complicated. I know being a hunter makes it even more confusing. I know. And I’m not saying I wanna start now. And it’s not a deal breaker. If all I ever get is you and Dakota then I’ll still be the happiest man alive. But if you ever think you might want more-”

Before he could finish his sentence, you quickly leaned up and pressed your lips to his in a small peck. “If I ever want more, you’ll be the first to know. Promise.”

Smiling widely, he wrapped his arm around your waist and turned you around before tucking his chest up against your back. With him wrapped around you, you reached over and flicked the lamp off, sending the room into darkness. Sleep came easy after that.

Bamby

[nancywheelxr]

this year’s love had better last ( read on AO3 )

“Quentin Coldwater?” Eliot asks, just to be sure, just to catch his attention and hold it forever, possibly, just to fill out the air buzzing around them.

Quentin nods, mumbling an incoherent string of sounds.

“I’m Eliot,” he says, and puts out his cigarette, drops down from the school sign. “You’re late.”

Under his assessing gaze, Quentin is obliviously still looking around, and Eliot finds his lost lamb-ness strangely endearing.

This year just might turn out to be interesting, after all.

or, the one where Fillory isn't real and a world of problems is avoided, Quentin still finds his way to Brakebills, Eliot still falls in love. Destiny is bullshit, but some things are constants.

*

It’s in the early days of Fall, where the leaves are still green and safely tucked in their trees and pumpkin hasn’t quite taken over the season yet, that Dean Fogg hands Eliot a white card with a name and tells him to show the first year around, and in the interest of keeping up the Physical Kids parties reputation, Eliot squints critically at the name written in black ink and magnanimously agrees.

How thoughtful of him, really. Eliot remembers being guided by an utterly bored, utterly boring student on his first day. Now, to have Eliot as a guide– this Quentin Coldwater has lucked out twice already. In a way, at least.

So he drapes himself over the Brakebills sign, lights a cigarette and contemplates the sky, the season, the still-green leaves, and a whole lot of nothings, and waits. Somewhere across campus, Margo is already showing her first year to the building because her first year isn’t late, he saw them walking past him a few minutes ago, and Eliot watched with disinterested jealousy as her own boring task slips away faster than his.

Eliot waits and smokes, and when Quentin Coldwater stumbles out of the woods, clutching his bag’s strap like a lifeline, eyes darting around in such sincere wonder– Eliot thinks oh.

“Quentin Coldwater?” Eliot asks, just to be sure, just to catch his attention and hold it forever, possibly, just to fill out the air buzzing around them. 

Quentin nods, mumbling an incoherent string of sounds.

“I’m Eliot,” he says, and puts out his cigarette, drops down from the school sign. “You’re late.”

Under his assessing gaze, Quentin is obliviously still looking around, and Eliot finds his lost lamb-ness strangely endearing. 

This year just might turn out to be interesting, after all.

*

It’s mid-season and Quentin did get in, placed in the Physical Kids Cottage along with the pretty blonde he seems to be always trailing after. At this point, Eliot is surprised they’re not fucking yet, but in the business of not dwelling too long in the matter of Quentin���s painful straightness, he opts to be selfishly glad.

What’s it with you and the flavor of the month, Margo had asked nearly a month ago, and Eliot had given her a superficial non-answer at the time, unwilling to admit there’s something bright and tempting in Quentin that just calls for Eliot’s attention. But that was then and this is now, and Margo has since given up on questioning Eliot’s reasons and simply adopted their dorky first year in their fold.

Part of him wonders if Margo’s readiness to accept Quentin has something to do with the other half of his package deal– well, the other-other half, since Julia also seems to be a vaguely permanent presence at his side, but it’s Alice that catches Margo’s eyes.

“Ten bucks says they’ll fuck in Brakebills South,” Margo says one day over the brim of her glass, and Eliot follows her gaze to find Quentin and Alice bent over a book in the living room couch. There’s nothing particularly bitter about the way she said it, but Eliot knows better, even if it’s the first time he’s seeing her stay fixed in someone like this. It might be easy for him to see, perhaps, because of the mirrored way it must show on his own face, to her at least. There’s no precedent on this for him either. “Earlier, even.”

Eliot thinks of the Trials, fast approaching. “If they get paired in the spell, maybe,” he allows, carefully keeping anything from his voice too, but still watching the way Quentin laughs and Alice shyly tucks her hair behind her ears. They do make an attractive couple, he supposes, in the sensible way most stories go. “I’m not sure I’ll take you up on this bet, Bambi.”

“I’m sorry,” she falls against his chest with a sigh and Eliot wraps his arms around her, presses a kiss into her hair. It’s just like them, really, to manage to catch these pesky feelings at the same time, over the same set of people. Misery does love company, it turns out.

“Why would you be?” Eliot replies, floating up a wine bottle for them to share. Nothing like good alcohol and the promising prospect of a party later on to distract them from this little hiccup in their good judgment. “Here, nothing to be sorry for after drinking this.”

She drinks it straight from the bottle and Eliot nods in approval– this feels like an appropriate evening for foregoing glasses, and out of the corner of his eyes, he catches Quentin looking. Eliot raises the bottle in a salute, and Alice frowns disapprovingly at their day drinking. 

“We do love those,” Margo sighs.

Quentin still smiles, though.

*

It’s the start of winter and the cold weather is beginning to seep in even here, even in Brakebills, and Eliot revels in missing his morning classes, staying in bed until the sun has warmed the Cottage into something less reminiscing of Brakebills South.

The walk down to the Cottage’s kitchen feels oddly like a walk of shame, even though there’s barely anyone around at this hour, and Eliot shakes his head, amused at himself.

“Coffee?”

The voice startles him, Eliot hadn’t noticed he wasn’t alone, and he wonders when did Quentin learn to blend in so well into the background. “Yes, please,” he answers on semi-automatic, busy taking in the messy kitchen and the messy Quentin standing in the middle of it. There are books scattered around the table and a notebook with a giant coffee stain next to them, and when Quentin moves into the light, Eliot can see the shadows under his eyes and the ink smudges on his hands. Eliot wants to gather him in his arms and wrap him in blankets– this is seriously getting ridiculous, the wet dreams were definitely easier to deal with. Instead, he asks, “did you stay up all night studying?”

Quentin shrugs, seemingly unsure if he should be apologetic or not. “I– maybe. I have a quiz later, I’m not– I was revising,” he hands Eliot a mug, his forehead creasing a little in the way it does when Quentin frowns without realizing. “But hey, did you– do you know what happened to the toaster?”

As a matter of fact, Eliot does know what happened to the toaster. Eliot and Margo after a night in London two days ago happened to the toaster. They had been spectacularly, deliciously drunk and decided to try to make the toaster run with magic instead of electricity. You know, in favor of the general cause of saving the environment and fleeting, unshakable curiosity. 

The toaster had not survived their attempts.

“No,” he lies, sitting down on the closest chair and making an effort not to add anymore spills into the notebook’s already impressive collection. “Perhaps Todd broke it?”

“Maybe,” says Quentin, dubiously, because he has not yet cottoned on the fun of shifting the blame into an unsuspecting Todd. “Also, we’re somehow out of bread? How– actually, who’s doing groceries? I’ve never seen anyone buy things but there’s always stuff in the fridge– should we, should I be contributing? That’s– whatever. Somehow there’s no bread anymore, maybe that’s why the toaster is gone.”

With a subtle flicker of his wrist, a pile of takeout containers someone left in the sink falls to the trash can, hiding the copious amounts of toasts Eliot and Margo had burned down to a crisp after trying to make toast with magic since the toaster was no longer working. “I have no idea what happened to all the bread,” Eliot tells him with an innocent face. The coffee burns his tongue, but he doesn’t flinch. “What I do know is that you are in desperate need of a break, Q.”

Like a bursting balloon, Quentin deflates with a noisy sigh, collapsing in the chair across Eliot. Somewhere inside his ribcage, something aches. He reaches to pat Quentin’s hand in silent comfort. “Maybe you’re right,” Quentin mumbles, rubbing at his eyes before something seems to occur to him. “Wait, don’t you have classes now?”

Eliot shrugs disinterestedly.

“How come I never see you or Margo in class, ever?” He continues, head tilting like an adorably confused puppy, squinting, “I’ve seen even Todd already– do you guys even attend lectures?”

They do, of course. Taking mandatory attendance loosely, of course. And studying in hidden nooks of the library and behind closed doors of his bedroom, of course. Eliot could tell Quentin that, of course. “Now, where would be the fun in that?” But it’s so much more fun to let him go on thinking of them as sort of cryptids. And Quentin does look pretty with that suspiciously bewildered look on his face.

“I,” Quentin shakes his head, huffing a laugh, and the line of his shoulders no longer looks about ready to snap. A small victory, if Eliot says so himself. “Nevermind. I think I’m gonna get some sleep– there’s more milk in the fridge, by the way.”

It suddenly dawns on Eliot that the coffee he’s drinking already has, in fact, milk. And sugar, just how he likes it.

“Thanks,” he says faintly, watching Quentin nod and haphazardly gather his things, pens and papers spilling out of his arms. “You know, you are one of us, Q. You could work on levitating spells.”

As the books and fallen pencils all float up at Eliot’s command, a shadow flickers behind Quentin’s eyes. “Not really, don’t have a Discipline, remember?”

“Nonsense,” Eliot shushes him, lets Quentin take over the spell, “you are here, aren’t you? You’re in the Physical Kids Cottage, therefore, you are a Physical Kid.”

“That’s not how–” 

He lifts a finger, Quentin falls quiet. “Nap first,” he tells him theatrically stern, “existential crisis, later– much later. After your mid-thirties, preferably.”

It brings a laugh out of Quentin, and Eliot smiles, chest growing tight and warm like summer is blooming early around his heart.

*

It’s the middle of winter, nearing the turning point of the season where temperatures will begin dropping less and less and snow won’t be a permanent feature, but for now, Brakebills is blanketed in white in a way that Upstate New York has no business being and Eliot has a sort-of boyfriend.

Mike is– he’s Mike. He’s a warm, pleasant distraction that Eliot finds easier and easier to keep around. He’s funny and charming and refined, and he likes Eliot, gives him his undivided attention, kisses him like he means all his sweet nothings.

Not that Eliot believes him just quite yet, but– he could, in time.

There’s disappointed jealousy in Margo’s eyes and she refuses to like Mike, which is not fair at all because Margo had her fair share of distractions after Quentin and Alice upgraded from emotionally-stunted fuckbuddies to officially a Thing a few weeks ago. She has Ibiza, and Madrid, and London, and the Naturalists parties, and Rio, and Eliot has Mike.

I only have one Bambi, he had reassured her, and he meant it. No one could ever replace Margo’s place on his heart, not even Quentin– she was the first person Eliot learned to love and there’s no erasing that; Margo’s his Bambi, that’s all.

Still, Mike is the closest thing he has to a boyfriend and he thinks he could learn to love him too, with time, so when Margo sighs long-suffering and weary but thaws her cold stare to allow Mike into their little group, Eliot smiles brilliantly and kisses her forehead, thank you.

Maybe she’ll never quite warm up to Mike, maybe she’ll keep thinking it’s a mistake, but compromises are compromises and Eliot opens a portal to their favorite bar in Amsterdam over the weekend– Margo grins and kisses his cheek.

All is forgiven.

*

It’s the end of winter and the Woof Fountain is cracking, melting under the fine frozen surface. The pale sunlight hits the ice and turns the crystals in tiny rainbows every once in a while and it’s surprisingly mesmerizing to watch the ice fracture bit by bit.

Eliot isn’t sure how long he’s been sitting at the bench, smoking a cigarette and listening to the splintering noises behind him, but it’s long enough that morning classes are dismissed and students start to filter out, eagerly running off towards their houses and portals.

Among them, there is Quentin and there is Alice– although, interestingly enough, there’s no Quentin-and-Alice. They walk close, but the awkwardness around them is not the we-just-had-sex-oh-my-god-i’m-sorry-you-heard-it-didn’t-you that usually lingers. 

Don’t be foolish, Eliot tells himself. This means nothing.

Quentin spots him first, raising a hand to wave but deciding against it halfway and clumsily lowering it again, settling on a smile before turning to tell Alice something. She doesn’t frown, only nodding jerkily and making a sharp left in the direction of the Cottage.

“Hey,” Quentin says, a bit out of breath as he stops in front of Eliot with an undignified high pile of books on his arms. “What are you doing here?”

The late morning light is hitting Quentin’s eyes in the exact angle to turn them into that lovely chocolate color, honeyed with warmth, and now it’s Eliot’s turn to be breathless. To stall, he blows a puff of smoke, shapes it into a bunny and lets it run a lap before dissolving in Quentin's face. “Spending time not in the Cottage,” he finally answers, “I wouldn’t recommend going inside just yet. A few third years have decided to try their hand at transfiguration. It’s been going as well as expected.”

“Oh no, Alice– she’s on her way there,” Quentin frowns, charmingly worried, eyebrows knitting, and his books sway with him. 

“No need for that, between all of us, I’m sure Alice is the most capable one to defend herself against a half-tiger, half-chair.” Besides, the thought of Alice Quinn, hands on her hip and armed with her self-righteous fury lecturing some cocky third-years on how not to fuck up spells is endlessly funny. It serves them right, he thinks. 

“Oh,” he says again, conceding the point, and shuffles a little. “So, uh. Not a good idea to go back for a while?”

“Probably not,” Eliot half-smiles, putting out his cigarette and waiting amusedly for Quentin to finish his thought.

“Then, lunch?” Quentin asks, followed by more self-conscious shuffling. For a moment, Eliot considers declining. He thinks of Mike, off to Portland in a work trip for the next couple of days, and he thinks of Margo shaking her head infuriatingly knowing, and he thinks of his own breathlessness just a few minutes ago. It would be, perhaps, the kinder, better choice to say no.

“Then, lunch,” he agrees, getting to his feet and claiming half of Quentin’s books.

Oh, well. Eliot has never been very good at being kind to himself.

*

It’s spring and the days are warming up, color blooming around the lawns and bushes and even the accidental, occasionally cared for, tiny garden in the Cottage’s backyard. Eliot’s not sure the marigolds will survive the summer.

It’s also Spring Break, and the campus is blessedly empty, with only a few scattered students still hanging around, no drawn-out lectures or dull homework to get through. Normally, Eliot would have been the first to step through a portal with Margo, ready to lose himself in the best possible ways, but this year is– things are different.

For one, Margo is upstairs, having a crisis over her wardrobe and pretending it’s not because Alice asked her where she bought the tacos from last week and somehow got roped up into showing the twitchy little bird around New York. Good for her, Eliot thinks, although he hasn’t made up his mind yet how he feels about the latest Quentin-Alice break up.

It is a travesty that nearly six months in and Alice has not taken a tour around the real New York, though.

Maybe, and this is perhaps the wildest thing to date, so he’s taking it with a grain or two of salt, but maybe, they have changed a bit, too. Eliot does have a boyfriend now– a boyfriend that has a steady job, and pay taxes, and drinks moderately, perfectly reasonable amounts, and who has parents he wants Eliot to meet someday soon, and for some unfathomable reason seems to genuinely like Eliot even after learning the Sparknotes about Indiana.

“When did this happen,” he muses out loud, leaning against the railing and taking a swing from his flask.

“When did what happen?” Quentin asks, sounding mildly alarmed, and Eliot doesn’t bother turning around, waits until Quentin quits hovering at the doorway and joins him in the porch, tentatively hopping up to sit on the railing. “So, hm. Something happened?”

Yes, we grew up, how dreadful. “Not yet,” Eliot says, looking up at the sky. From here, they could see the sun and the tree line and if it weren’t for the multitude of spells keeping Brakebills separated from the rest of New York, the countless grey buildings, probably. “But something might– Margo has her eyes set on your, well, ex-girlfriend. Sorry, that came out harsher than I intended.” There was supposed to be a question there but it got lost somewhere between his thoughts and leaving his mouth, and Eliot kind of chickened halfway and overcompensating for that isn’t the smoothest way to choose words. Still, there’s a question hidden in the middle. Can you find it, Q?

He gets an answer in return– not the one he had been expecting because you have to know the question in order to expect something about the answer. That being said, “oh, thank god,” is still fairly shocking as far as responses go, “I wanted to talk to you about this sooner, but it wasn’t my secret to tell– and, and Alice was being so stubborn about this, you know? I told her, I told her, to go for it, but she wouldn’t listen and I’ve never been more stressed in my life– El, she kept chickening out every fucking time and I– it’s been weeks!”

“I don’t– you’re not upset?”

Quentin laughs. 

“I was upset, yeah,” he shrugs, fiddling with the end of his long sleeves, “but then I was relieved, to be honest. We– Alice and I, we’re not very good at being together? I– that’s not. We work better as friends. Besides, it wasn’t really fair to anyone to keep, uh, dragging out something that was clearly over. And she’s been crushing so hard on Margo, it’s– it’s kind of sweet, actually? I don’t know, we were thinking of starting a club for bisexual disasters. There would be t-shirts involved.”

So much to unpack there. So much, like, wow– Eliot decides to wrap it all up and zip the suitcase back closed, to be dissected at a later date, preferably without Quentin’s soft, earnest eyes catching all of Eliot’s attention and sending his heart into a spiral on his chest. “As Margo’s best friend, I have to ask,” Eliot settles on the easier route, the one that doesn’t acknowledge the fact that Quentin is– that he isn't –  “because if Alice’s only using her to rebound–”

“Oh, no, no,” Quentin nearly falls off his perch in his rush to stop Eliot’s train of thoughts, gripping the banister with white-knuckles to stay upright. “She’s not– Alice really likes her, there’s no rebounding, or second best, or anything like that. Margo’s the real deal for her, you know?”

Yes, yes, Eliot knew which is exactly why he had to ask. “In that case, I’m happy for them and their cute Taco Tuesday date.”

“Are you giving them your blessing?” Quentin’s eyebrows raise and amusement spills from his smile like sunshine after rain.

“I’m being a concerned friend, that’s all.”

“I know,” Quentin’s smile gentles, tugging at Eliot’s every heartstring and making his ribcage constrict painfully because he sounds as if he means it in the honest, unadulterated way only Quentin could ever be.

Eliot clears his throat. “Anyway. Are you sure you’re okay with this new development, Q?”

“Yeah,” he says, without missing a beat, “I really am. As I said, it’s been over even before we broke up. It’s fine, I’m happy for them too.”

There’s something in his voice, though, that nags at Eliot’s mind, but he shakes the thought off, slips it into the stack of things not to obsess over right now, and simply passes Quentin his flask even though it’s the middle of the afternoon, only beginning to tip towards evening, and Quentin doesn’t always partake in day drinking as often as Eliot does. 

“Thanks,” Quentin murmurs, taking a big swing before handing the flask back, and his hair falls in his face like it always does, and Eliot sighs inwardly like he always does in response. “Hey, so. I’ve been talking to Julia and she thinks– I mean, that’s not. Nevermind, it’s stupid.”

“Q,” Eliot shifts, turning fully to look at Quentin, frowns at his tone, wishes he could erase the worried crease on his forehead, “come on, what’s going on?”

“No, it’s fine, really. And it’s not about Alice and Margo, either, don’t worry. Julia’s wrong anyway, there’s no point.”

Eliot wants to argue, press him for details, remind Quentin that Julia is an irritatingly exceptional Knowledge student and thus, is rarely wrong, but his phone goes off with a text, reminding him he has to hurry if he wants to make it in time to his date with Mike in fifteen minutes.“I have to meet Mike now,” he explains slowly, studying Quentin’s face for any signs he would not be okay on his own, “but we’ll talk later, when I get back, alright?”

“Yeah, yeah. Right, you should– I’ll be fine. Have uh, have fun on your date?”

The last part is said in his usual awkward, cringing self and Eliot can’t help the rush of fondness even as he walks back in the Cottage. With one last look behind him, Eliot leaves Quentin in the porch, silhouetted by a halo of sunlight and Spring.

*

It’s a little after the halfway mark on the season when the world is blooming in color and the breeze is a light perfume that Mike finally breaks up with him. 

Do you honestly see a future with us in it, Eliot? With me? Mike had asked looking worn out and heartbroken, and Eliot had never wanted so badly to say yes but– his eyes must betray the hesitation inside his chest and Mike has enough of an answer. I’m not a consolation prize, I deserve better than to be someone else’s second choice.

And how could Eliot argue with that? He lets him go and selfishly doesn’t apologize, watching Mike leave with a sort of dispassionate emptiness. His world turns a little grey at the edges, dulled with an aching sadness, but it’s not off-kilter.

Mike is gone and Eliot– Eliot’s not nearly as heartbroken as he wishes.

* 

It’s summer and spring has slipped away to give space to higher and higher temperatures. The heat is merciless and the sun is barely even in the sky when Eliot wakes up, too uncomfortable with the too warm weather to go back to sleep.

The Cottage is still stuffy even after he opens every window and door of his bedroom, so he admits defeat and takes a shower, climbing down to the kitchen once he’s done with his hair still dripping and his polo shirt sticking to his back.

He doesn’t expect to find anyone else awake at this hour, and yet–

“Oh,” Alice breathes, looking up at him like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car, and Eliot thinks too early, too early, too early, but it’s also too late, so he steps into the kitchen pretending the air isn’t suddenly awkward. “Good morning,” she offers.

“Morning,” he nods, making a beeline for the fridge and taking out the orange juice he saw Todd hiding behind the milk yesterday. Resisting the urge to look for his flask, Eliot forces himself to sit at the table with a polite smile. Margo likes her, it’s the least Eliot can do, and besides, he can’t fault her for falling in the same rabbit hole as him. If anything, Eliot should be asking her for tips on how to dig himself out. “Early morning or late night?” 

Alice twitches, eyes darting at him and away, back down to her mug, but her lips quirk into what resembles a small smile. “I couldn’t go back to sleep,” she explains with a shrug, “and didn’t want to wake Margo up, so.”

Now, his smile turns more genuine. To be honest, Eliot had been a little wary of their relationship, in the beginning, always hovering in the periphery of things, worried Alice didn’t feel half as much as Margo did, but– he sees it now, he really does. Alice is still a bit too uptight, and twitchy, and not too comfortable around Eliot, but it’s in the little things that show– the concessions, the smiles, the I didn’t want to wake Margo ups. 

“Well, cheers, then,” Eliot raises his glass in salute and Alice clinks her mug against it amusedly, clearly recalling Todd labeling the orange bottle with his name yesterday. He winks at her and she laughs. 

It’s in the little things, you see.

“What, uh, what about you?” Alice asks, adjusting her glasses. “I’ve never seen you up so early.”

With a theatrical groan, Eliot leans back on his chair, “it’s too hot upstairs! Impossible to stay in bed! It’s a disaster– there goes my beauty sleep.”

“A tragedy, truly,” she agrees, mockingly serious, and her eyes gleam with mischief he hadn’t realized could spark there. Hmm, yes, perhaps he sees how she could work with Margo. “Would knowing Q is due to come back from his pastries run anytime now help lift your spirits?”

A whole minute ticks by while Eliot stares at Alice, frantically searching for the right words for an answer that wouldn’t come off defensively rude or desperately indifferent until she takes pity on him. “Eliot,” she says, smiling gently, “I’m not blind. And I also don’t mind,” Alice adds, meeting his eyes head on, bolder than he’s seen her in– ever, perhaps. “I’m in love with Margo and– I like to think we’re friends.”

Friends don't let friends drink Long Island Iced Tea, he recalls with a tentative grin of his own. 

“So, the point I’m trying to make is– don’t be stupid,” she sips her coffee primly as if giving out love advice at the crack of dawn is a thing she regularly does, and hey, for all that Eliot knows, it might as well be. It’s not like he’s ever awake at this hour. 

But wherever else their conversation is idling to go, it gets abruptly cut off by the sound of the Cottage’s front door opening and closing and Quentin stumbling inside, paper bags gathered in his arms like precious cargo.

“Oh, hey, you’re up early,” he grins, his whole face lighting up and bringing the sun inside with him and setting Eliot on fire. The bags are set on the counter and Quentin starts to unload them, oblivious to it all. 

“A blueberry muffin, a croissant, and a soy latte macchiato for you and Margo as requested,” he hands Alice a box and a paper cup, “bagels and a latte for me,” another box is set aside, and then Quentin is looking up at Eliot again, holding the last plastic box towards him victoriously, “scones and chocolate chip cookies– which is terrible breakfast food, I know, but you said they were your favorites, and they were there, so I figured why the fuck not, you know?”

Eliot takes the box numbly, carefully peering inside to find exactly what Quentin had listed, but his brain loops uncomprehendingly around the concept. “How did you know–” He trails off, unsure how to end the question.

“I didn’t know you were already up, I was gonna leave it here and hope for the best, to be honest,” Quentin shrugs, snickering at his own idea, like that would make it any less thoughtful, like Eliot could think any less of it. 

How did you know it was my favorite is what he truly wanted to ask, he realizes.

“Thank you,” he says honestly, swallowing around a lump he hadn’t noticed forming on his throat.

Quentin ducks his head, smiling.

A bit of rustling at his left reminds him they’re not alone and Eliot shouldn’t work himself up over every little crumb of affection, but the look Alice throws him as she takes her and Margo’s breakfast upstairs is pointed and sharp. To Quentin, she gives a different sort of glare over the kitchen counter. 

Eliot is not sure what to make of any of this.

Not that it matters, of course, as Quentin is soon launching into a story about his trip to the nearest coffee shop and Eliot eats his scones and listens, listens, listens, watching the rising summer sun filtering through the window and reflecting off Quentin’s eyes.

It’s in the little things, alright, and he wants to know them by heart.

*

It’s Autumn again and Eliot is smoking on top of the Brakebill’s stone sign, watching the clouds slowly paint the sky in shades of grey and pondering on the past year. He watches the tree line with an almost nostalgic feeling, catching himself expecting Quentin to come bumbling out of the woods and crashing headfirst into magic and Eliot’s life and a whole new world for him, for both of them, if Eliot’s being honest for once in his life.

“I’m having a deja vu,” Quentin announces and for a second Eliot wholeheartedly agrees, but there’s no mistaking this Quentin for past-Quentin, and it’s not just his hair– shorter, less tangled, hiding less of his eyes– or the lack of his messenger bag. This time around Quentin is smiling at Eliot and leaning against the stone sign, none of the nervous ticks he gets around other people, only his usual earnest, open self– and Eliot’s heart skips so many beats at the idea of how much trust is there for Quentin to give Eliot unrestricted access like this. Doesn’t he know by now? Eliot shouldn’t be trusted with breakable things, Q, don’t you know? 

“Careful,” Eliot says around his cigarette, knowing fully well his eyes are doing enough smiling on their own, “Dean Fogg might hear you and decide to stick you with the Psychs and then where would you be? Penny just might murder you in your sleep if you room with him again.”

“Yeah, it’s too late for that now,” Quentin says, carelessly happy to let the words spill, “turns out I really am where I belong.”

“You got your discipline?” The surprise in his voice is impossible to mask, but Eliot knows Quentin hears the genuine happiness along with it.

“Yup,” he grins, excited and bright, impossibly gold in a greying season, “it’s nothing flashy, but– “his grin goes impossibly wider and how overwhelming it is to be smiled at fully by Quentin Coldwater. Eliot had been doomed from the start, really. “Repair of Small Objects.”

“You’re a Physical Kid,” Eliot tells him with a proud grin of his own.

“I’m a Physical Kid,” Quentin agrees.

“I told you belonged here,” he allows himself a second to be soft in disguise of being smug. 

“You did,” Quentin agrees again, suspiciously mellow about it, and then goes on overly casual, “but in hindsight, that’s kinda obvious. You’re here, after all– where else would I belong?”

Eliot’s heart stops beating, stops being, stops– “Q,” he sits up, pauses, lost as to how to explain how terrifyingly bad Eliot could fuck this up if Quentin means what Eliot thinks he means, how fear is seizing up his bones in an unshakeable grip and clenching Eliot’s jaw shut, grinding down any words that might be brave enough to try and escape past his lips.

“El,” Quentin counters softly, slipping between Eliot’s legs and resting his hands in Eliot’s knees, and Eliot is sure he must be burning hand-shaped holes into his jeans. He looks at Eliot and he’s still smiling and he’s still the brightest, most beautiful thing in any room and Eliot– he’s terrified. “If you don’t want this, you don’t want us to be a thing, that’s okay, really, nothing has to change, but, uh– this is me, choosing this, choosing you. Sorry, I had to tell you or I would go insane, you know? I’m so in love with you, and you’re one of my best friends, and I don’t want to fuck this up, but– Julia thinks– she wouldn’t leave it alone, she says you’re in love with me too, and I– yeah. I wanted to believe in that so bad.”

There are so many ways this could blow up in their face, so many reasons Eliot should walk away, stop this before it wrecks everything, but Eliot is only human, and isn’t human nature to be selfish? He’s not strong enough– fuck that, he doesn’t want to be strong enough to turn Quentin down, turn his shot at something great, at the kind of love he’s only ever allowed himself to wonder about at the dead of night and inside his thoughts. 

So instead, he tells himself to be brave and reaches for Quentin with shaking fingers and his heart on his sleeves, says, “haven’t you learned, Julia is rarely wrong,” and Quentin grins, grins, grins, leans up, and Eliot meets him halfway. “How could I not fall in love with you, Q?” He whispers against Quentin’s lips, drawing Quentin closer, closer, deeming every inch between them an unforgivable crime, “I love you, of course I love you,” Eliot says, feels Quentin wrapping his arms around his waist and shivering against his chest, “I met you and I loved you, and I’ll have you for as long as you’ll have me.”

Quentin kisses him, and kisses him, and kisses him.

“Forever, then,” Quentin decides and means it.

“Forever, then,” Eliot agrees, and hopes. 

[theuniversitychallengereview]

UC 49.7-49.10

Every so often I manifest an incoherent plan to stop watching YouTube, borne out of some inchoate idea to do with productivity, but then I’ll watch a video so mundanely profound and inspiring that gives me more of a creative boost than any amount of time I would save by not watching 20-minute explainers on Game of Thrones lore. On this occasion that video was this, on the toolbox fallacy.

Simply, as the Passion of the Nerd puts it in his video, its the idea that one can’t do (x), until one has (y) - or, the lie one tells oneself in order to put off doing something, whatever that something may be. In my case, as is so often the case, the (y) is time. I haven’t written a blog for early two months, and in that period I told myself repeatedly that I was just waiting for that big long stretch of time where I could sit down and get everything done at once. 

But that never happens, and the longer you go without starting, the bigger the pile gets, so eventually it becomes impossible to get through everything at once without a parcel of time so monstrously huge it is terrifiyng in its own right. 

And thats where the fallacy comes in - you don’t need everything to be perfect in order to get started, and once you’ve started, you don’t need everything to go perfectly either. You just need to start. So lets get started.

Episode 7 - Jesus, Oxford vs Manchester

I live in Manchester now (aside: before I got my job here I applied for a PhD at ManUni with a guy called Dr Kiss, a sliding doors moment which could have resulted in my failing to qualify for a University Challenge team for a record eight times in a row, assuming it was a three year doctorate), which should make them my second team, but to be honest they’ve probably held that title for a while anyway. Like Michael Schumacher in his glory days, or Roger Federer in his prime, the University of Manchester produced consistent levels of supreme performance in the Challenge between 2005 and 2014 that gained them many fans, myself included. 

They reached nine out of ten semi finals in that time, and brought the fight to the Oxbridge duopoly with four series victories. Jesus haven’t had anywhere near as much success in the Paxman Era, but won the penultimate Bamber series against Imperial in 1986.

Manchester are mascotted by a bee, the buzzy symbol of the city; and Jesus are sponsored by a jumper? Thats what it looks like anyway, it might just be a bit of draping with the college logo on it. A lot of the Oxbridge teams do this, but there may as well be nothing there because its pretty half assed. 

Its the Jumpersquad who unravel the night’s first clue, with Cashman taking the ten points for the Cashmere Collective. Manchester equalised with the next Starter, and moved into the lead with a full set on the third. A delightful picture round on Premier League football team finishing positions followed, but Manchester could only manage one (I took the hat-trick, naturally). I always enjoy it when the setters put the sports questions into inventive UC formats.

The Mancunians would get into triple figures before Jesus could build on their opening points, but two Starters in a row got them out of the quagmire, and a third, the music round, brought them within thirty points again. However, they were helped out a little bit by Paxman allowing ‘They Must Be Giants’ in place of ‘They Might Be Giants’. I guess accuracy doesn’t matter as much when its merely pop culture.

This would prove the end of Oxford’s comeback though, as Manchester surged ahead with eighty five of the next hundred points to seal the victory with plenty of time to go. They must have known they had it in the bag as well, because at this point they sat back and let Jesus race for a high scoring loser spot, which they may well get.

Final Score: Jesus, Oxford 145 - 185 Manchester

Episode 8 - Durham vs Trinity, Cam

Durham reached the semi finals last series, the third time they have done so since they won their only title of the Paxman Era in 2000, having also claimed a Bamber Trophy in 1977. Trinity won under Jeremy’s stewardship in 1995 and 2014, along with a victory in 1974, making this a match-up between two of only three teams (the other being The Open University) to have won the Challenge in both of its iterations. 

Adding further weight to the not-so-mythical myth that Durham is a surrogate for Oxbridge, the Northern team have also got a jumper-y object as their mascot (at this point I have realised that there is a proper word for what those things are, but I’m in too deep with this jumper thing. Is it just a banner? A sigil?). I’m glad to see that Trinity have tried though, and are proudly displaying what looks to be a hand-knitted bear (possibly Sooty from Sooty and Sweep?).

Durham charged out of the blocks with four of the first five Starters and ten of their first twelve bonuses. Trinity would have to wake up soon if they didn’t want to get blown completely away. Fortunately they heard their alarm clock when it next went off and in the blink of an eye they were ahead. 

Wait, surely not... *checks notes* No, I was right first time round, following a 90-20 opening stint, Trinity went 80-0 to turn the game on its head. Now it was Durham’s turn to feel shell-shocked, but they took the next Starter and we were level again. A hundred each. The game was being played like rugby, with one team smashing forward until the momentum could be stopped, at which point the tide would flo the other way. Scintillating quizzing.

The turnovers started coming faster, with a frenetic back and forth developing. It was Trinity who finally managed to stamp their authority on proceedings, opening up a significant lead with only a few minutes remaining. Durham would need to work even quicker than in the early stages to add further topsy-turviness to this topsy-turvy match, but they couldn’t manage it. A brief spurt at the death may however be enough to drag them into the play-offs.

Final Score: Durham 145 - 200 Trinity, Cam

Episode 9 - LSE vs Courtauld Institute of Art

Like I said in the introduction, the longer you leave something before starting, the more difficult it is to start because of how much you’ll have to do once you start. Another issue with this blog in particular, is that the more you have to do at once, the more difficult it becomes to not just write the exact same things over and over again. If I do one per week then even if I do repeat myself word for word then I don’t realise because seven days if far too long to remember anything for, and ignorance is bliss etc. With a big batch like this one then it becomes painfully obvious how many times I use the word Starter, even if it is somewhat necessary.

Oh well, lets start with a recap of the two teams previous appearances... LSE made the final in 1996, losing a high-scoring match against local rivals Imperial. They made the semis two years later, and the quarters in 2009, meaning that they’ve been elimiated at every stage of the competition apart from the second round. For Courtauld, it would be a success to be knocked out at that stage, having lost their only two matches, in 2015 and 2018.

Courtauld took the first points of the evening with the amusing fact that the Nobel Peace Prize hasn’t been awarded on a number of occasions due to a lack of deserving recipients (could they do the same with the British Prime Minister?). LSE fumbled a science starter, leaving the board (in this case the circuit board which makes up the buzzers) wide open, but Courtauld can’t even guess, which amuses Paxman no end - “they don’t study a lot of that [at an art institute], do they?”.

They know Shakespeare though, and take the picture Starter on one of his ‘lost rhymes’. The match ambles on slowly, at a far more leisurely pace than last weeks (a good thing about this batching is that I can reference the previous games with the confidence that I’ll be understood), and its Courtauld who are ambling slightly faster than their London counterparts.

With a few minutes remaining, LSE decde to give it a go, with Engels cheekily waving Paxman on after another science Starter was left unanswered. I just spent about fifteen minutes trying to make a gif of this, but the websites kept crashing and the one I did make was only loading as a picture here. So if you can just imagine it that would be great.

Final Score: LSE 90 - 145 Courtauld

Episode 10 - Goldsmiths vs Southampton

Goldsmiths lost on their first Challenge appearance, and made it to the second round last year, the only other time they’ve made it to the televised rounds. If they continue their current trajectory they’ll make it to the quarter finals this time out, which is the furthest their first round opponents Southampton have made it in the Paxman Era, in 2014.

The Southampton mascot, a fluffy deer, has fallen off of the table between the middle players and has consequently gained some camoflague so you have to squint to figure out what it is. I don’t know if it was placed there on purpose, or if they simply didn’t notice that their mascot resembled that scene from Bambi. Goldsmiths have a teddy bear who is wearing graduation robes, indicating that they award degrees to cuddly toys - where will the liberal agenda take us next?

Paxman informs us that Goldsmith’s Sibley hails from the same Canadian town as human PA system Eric Monkman, and when he introduces himself you can detect a similar lilt to his accent, but without the sense that you’ve accidentally sat on the volume button. 

It is he who takes the first Starter of the evening, and indeed the second too - perhaps he does bear some more relation to his noisy neighbour. Goldsmiths took two more on the bounce to go 70 points clear. They were unlucky not to be further ahead, having guessed wrongly between both York and Leeds and Southampton and Portsmouth on the picture round (with no other clues its pretty hard to tell the difference between 20 miles on an unannotated map).

Maybe it was the mention of Southampton (and its misidentification) that woke the Southern side up, but they claimed their first points on the next Starter, along with two bonuses on the Lake District that I knew too, but only because I was literally in Windermere at the weekend.

Once they’d figured out that you need to buzz in and answer questions in order to win the game, Southampton were actually pretty good, and their confidence seemed to grow with every point they put on the board (in this case the circuit board which makes up the - hang on, I’ve already done this one, haven’t I? See, I told you this whole repeating malarkey was difficult), and they polish up two of three bonuses on haikus which describe chemical elements (I missed the explanation of the question format when I watched this the first time, so was astounded that they had even been discussing anything with any conviction. “Just doing your job holding plants together. No fireworks, no fuss”. I mean, what is that on about?)

In fact, just as Southampton remembered how to play, Goldsmiths forgot, and they only managed to shake themselves of this malaise twice more for the rest of the match, allowing Southampton to canter away, mostly unchallenged. 

Final Score: Goldsmiths 95 - 175 Southampton

Phew! That was a big one - well done if you made it all the way to the end. I still have two more to catch up on, but I haven’t even watched those episodes yet so I’ll just do them as regular posts, hopefully tomorrow. 

I’d also like to give a huge thanks to Tough Soles who are supporting me on Patreon! (sorry for falling so far behind - I’ll catch up soon)

[stilesxeveryone]

Pack of Two - Steter Week

~It’s day 4! I went with touch-starved but idk if I really hit the brief. I kinda don't like this, tbh? Like I feel like I forced a lot of it and it doesn't flow very nicely. Idk, hopefully you guys like it more. You can find this on AO3, where my account happens to be!

You can request fics, moodboards and drawings!~

Peter wasn't going feral. He wasn't. He had a pack so he wasn't going to go feral.

Sure, sometimes he growled when one of Hale-McCall's pack shouted at him. It was just because he was more in touch with his animal side, and there was no point in hiding it if everyone in the room was in the know.

Sure, on full moons he found himself out in the woods, eating little creatures, even though he didn't remember how he got there.

Sure, his gums ached as he almost let his fangs slip out every time he caught the scent of something delicious—whether it was a deer or Stiles didn't seem to matter to his wolf. They were both bambi anyway.

Sure, he wasn't really part of the pack because all of them either hated him or didn't trust him to even get within five metres of them.

Sure, the last time anyone touched him was when the wendigo from two weeks ago tried to bite a chunk out of him.

It was fine.

He wasn't going feral.

Except he was definitely slipping into the state of being an omega and no one seemed to notice or care.

~

It was a normal day.

Well, it had started off as a normal day.

Peter woke up, did his business in the bathroom, and made himself some coffee before starting on breakfast.

It had continued to be normal, right up until the toast popped out of the toaster and someone knocked at Peter's door.

Peter paused and listened. He recognised the heartbeat as belonging to one Stiles Stilinski and had very conflicted feelings about the fact that the boy knew where he lived and had decided to come visit.

Maybe if he didn't make any noise Stiles would think he wasn't home and would leave.

Except he really wanted to know why the kid was here.

Sighing, he grabbed his toast, moved the eggs off of the pan and onto the toast, then went to open the door.

"Stiles, it's a pleasure to see you. Come in." His smile was off as he hid his fangs from sight. Stiles' scent was almost overwhelming when none of the pack was there to dampen it.

"I wanted to talk," Stiles started, not bothering with a hello as he sat down in Peter's kitchen, where Peter had led him.

"What about?" Peter asked, turning away to grab his breakfast.

"Well, for starters you're growling more," Stiles said and Peter almost froze. Thankfully, he showed no outward sign of surprise.

"There have been animal remains found in the preserve, but none of the pack is owning up to killing anything. I don't know for sure if it is you, but it's certainly likely."

Peter turned to face him then but did nothing else.

"No one in the pack trusts you and no one in the pack touches you."

He didn't reply. He could tell what conclusion Stiles had come to, which was fine and true, but he wasn't sure of what solution he had come up with. He was somewhat concerned that it would be, 'If you go too far then I'll kill you.'

"So, obviously, you're now an omega and it's kinda not good at all for anyone," Stiles concluded, stopping as if he had nothing else to say.

"Congratulations on your fine deduction, Sherlock, but what do you propose as a solution?" Peter asked with a raised eyebrow, as the Hale prophecy predicted.

"Well, uh," for once his scent turned rotten with nerves, "I was kinda hoping even just having me in your pack would help? I know we wouldn't have an alpha and I'm probably not the best for a pack, but one is better than none, right? I mean, it's either that or I kill you if you go too far off the rails again." Stiles finally got a hold of his rambling and looked away from Peter, blush rising on his cheeks.

It was adorable.

"Stiles, I would love for you to be my pack, always have and always will. I offered you the bite, remember?" Maybe not the best memories to bring up. "But would you really be fine with all the touching and scenting?"

Stiles looked up at him with wide eyes before nodding. "Yeah, of course! I'd probably already be touching you and shit, but you're always on the staircase or in a corner or something so I can't, you know?"

It was Peter's turn for his eyes to widen with surprise. He grinned a second later though and asked, "So, I can hug you now?"

Stiles grinned back and stood up, "Yeah, sure."

As he breathed in Stiles' scent, face hidden in the crook of the boy's neck, he could feel his fangs lengthen and the burn of his eyes flaring blue. Hopefully, with time, with Stiles, he'd be able to control it a lot better.

For now, he revelled in the touch and the smell.

~

Three days later, he was at another bullshit 'pack meeting'. Derek and Scott were arguing, trying to work out how best to deal with the new problem in the woods. Peter was tired of the monotony of it all.

"Have you two ever thought about getting a divorce?" he asked when there was a lull in conversation.

"Shut up, Peter," the two yelled together. It seemed the only thing the two could agree on was that Peter was annoying.

He could feel a growl bubbling up in his throat, but it never came to fruition. Instead, as Stiles bumped shoulders with him, he felt a small amount of tension leak out of him.

"Who do you think's gonna win?" Stiles asked as he leaned into his side.

Peter raised an eyebrow at the question but responded seriously anyway, "Well, Erica and Boyd always vote for Derek. Isaac looks confused and more puppy-ish than normal, so he'll probably vote the same as them. Allison looks stern and sad, so she's probably going with Derek. Lydia looks like she's about to kill Scott, and Jackson always votes the same as her."

Stiles nodded, eyeing everyone in the room. "Interesting take. But what if we entertain the idea that Lydia gets so mad at Scott that she storms out? Jackson follows her. Allison and Isaac both end up voting for Scott, so he doesn't feel like everyone's attacking him. Makes it a tie, instead of all for Derek."

"I like the way you think, but if it ties then the vote goes to you and Derek wins."

"Actually," Stiles started with a bump of their hips, "we win because I get to make a plan for a middle ground if they tie."

"We?"

"You don't wanna help make the plan?" he asked with a pout.

Peter laughed and replied, "Of course I do, darling."

"Good."

~

Stiles was the first to leave the pack meeting, after everyone voted on Derek's plan, as he had to make dinner for himself and his dad. Peter was making his move to leave as well but suddenly there was a fiery banshee, excited but concerned werewolf and suspicious hunter in front of him.

"Are you and Stiles sleeping together?" the banshee, Lydia, asked with a glare.

"What?" Peter blanked, blinking several times. He had certainly entertained the idea of sleeping with the guy, dreamed about it, fantasised even, but never expected it to happen.

"Are you fucking Stiles?" the werewolf, Erica, repeated more crudely.

"No, I'm not," he said after recovering from his surprise.

"Then why are you and him suddenly so close?" the hunter, Allison, demanded to know.

"Have you ever heard of a thing called pack? Or even friendship?" He raised an eyebrow.

Lydia snorted. Somehow it was still a very regal action.

"Well, I was thinking friends with benefits, rather than a romantic relationship." Erica shrugged.

Peter sighed. "Right, so, interrogation over? I can go? I do have things to do."

The three girls all glared a moment longer, and Peter would be stupid not to be at least concerned that they'd kill him, before stepping out of his way.

He nodded to them before leaving the loft as well.

~

Later that night, Stiles showed up at Peter's apartment. He knocked and waited impatiently for Peter to open the door. Once it was open, Stiles brushed passed him without a hello. Instead, he got an,

"I brought you dinner. It's leftovers from what I made for dad."

"You brought me dinner?" Peter was confused but happy to let it happen if it meant Stiles would brush passed him more. Jesus, that was a weird thought.

"That's a thing, right? Providing for pack?" Stiles asked as he set the food down on the kitchen table.

Peter quickly fought back a grin and flash of eyes as he nodded. "Yeah, that's a thing."

He growled as he ate, though Stiles commented that it was very much a purr, and contentedly listened to Stiles' chatter the whole time.

As he washed his plate, Stiles began to fidget more than the usual and his scent turned rotten with nerves. It took Peter back to the last time the boy showed up at his apartment.

"Um, so, I was wondering if I could stay over for tonight?" Stiles paused before he decided it would be better if he explained himself, "It's just that dad's working again, and I really hate the house when it's empty, and you obviously don't have to say yes, and I'm sorry, I don't know why I bothered asking, I'll just go."

Before Stiles could take more than a step, Peter had wrapped a hand around his wrist, then around his waist and tugged him into a hug.

"Of course, you can stay, Stiles. What kind of pack would I be if I kicked you out? You can stay for as long as you like, whenever you like." Peter rubbed a hand up and down his back, soothing the boy's nerves until he was limp and too tired.

"Let's get you to bed, pup," he murmured. Gently lifting Stiles up, he walked them to his bedroom and onto the bed.

As he was pulling their shoes and socks off, Stiles spoke with closed eyes, "You called me pup, dude, tha's weird… Are we gonna make a two-man puppy pile?"

Peter huffed a laugh, not quite what he was expecting. Stiles rarely was.

"Most people tend to call it cuddling."

"You called me pup so now it's a puppy pile 'cause you're a pup, too."

Stiles was about ten seconds away from falling asleep and it definitely showed.

Instead of replying, Peter slipped in next to him and let Stiles' scent, even breathing and heartbeat lull him to sleep.

[fanfic-from-a-67-impala]

Courage

Fulfilling a square for @spnonewordbingo: DEER

Characters: Bela x Ruby, OMC demon

Word Count: 3624

Summary: Bela helps Ruby out with a job, and she'll need to scrape together all the courage she has to get through it alive.

Warnings: SMUT, angst, nightmare, canon-typical violence, sex in the midst of emotional turmoil

A/N: Yes, you read that right. I wrote some lesbian smut. I promise, I didn't know this was going to happen when I started writing. The characters wanted to do it, and I just kind of played along. It’s pretty softcore. If you want to know more about my decision to include it, feel free to ask me about it.

In case you didn't know, it's Gen's birthday today! It just so happens that she and Lauren Cohan are a year and a day apart in age (it was Lauren's birthday yesterday), so I thought I'd take the opportunity to turn the occasion into femslash.

In the middle of a forest, Bela perches on the edge of a picnic bench, avoiding the rain puddle that settled in the middle of the deteriorating wooden slab.

She hears only the white noise of water running through a nearby stream and the shrill chirping of birds from every end of the forest. The sun shines overhead, though the thick foliage above blocks most of the light, leaving a soft glow on the forest floor. When a breeze wafts through the trees, the dew hanging onto the leaves and on blades of grass shimmer as they catch the light.

In the corner of her eye, Bela spots a deer. It bends over the other side of the stream, drinking.

Bela was always fond of the animal. She would never admit to anyone that she had had a soft spot for Bambi, but she admired them. People see them as weak, but they'll evade threats at all costs. They can outrun, out-jump, or out-swim almost any predator, and they won't show weakness.

That is, unless they're caught.

The deer shoots its head up, ears twitching, even before Bela hears the rumble of the engine. As an orange Mustang drives into view, the deer darts back into the trees, out of sight.

The car pulls up on the dirt path next to Bela’s silver Mercedes. Ruby climbs out of the driver's side, zipping up her black leather jacket.

“If you ask me to meet you in the middle of this swamp, the least you can do is be on time,” Bela calls.

Ruby shrugs as she walks. “Got held up.”

Bela crosses her arms over her chest. She didn't mind waiting, really.

“What are we doing here, Ruby?” she asks.

“Cutting right to it, huh?” Ruby stands in front of her, leaning from one foot to to the other, hands stuffed in her pockets.

“I need to find a demon.”

“Found one,” Bela remarks.

Ruby rolls her eyes. “Another demon, wiseass. I tracked him down to somewhere in town. I was hoping you could do your spirit board thing and get me an exact location.”

“Of course I can,” Bela says. “What does this demon have that you need so badly?”

“None of your business.”

Bela holds her hands up. “Fine,” she says. “Speaking of business, you have to know by now that no favor of mine comes without a price.”

“Oh, of course not,” Ruby says haughtily, mocking her accent.

Bela raises an eyebrow.

“This demon travels with an impressive collection,” Ruby explains.

“Collection?”

She nods. “Charms, hex bags—you name it. Millions in market value.”

Ruby is trying to tempt her, and it’s working. It’s an acquisition, like any other, and if Bela wants to keep those high ceilings over her head and the wheel of that cute Mercedes in her hands, she needs to take it.

“I’m listening.”

Ruby smirks. “You find him. I get mine, you get yours. We got a deal?”

Bela ponders this. Demons are vengeful creatures. She only had to learn that lesson once. But, she reasons, if Ruby is there with her, nothing too disastrous can happen, right?

“Deal.”

“You’re sure this is it?”

The spirits led them to an abandoned warehouse off the highway. Bela stares at it from the passenger seat of Ruby’s car.

“I’m sure,” she says.

She climbs out of the car and checks the chamber of her pistol. As she starts toward the building, she catches Ruby watching her with an amused eye.

“What?” Bela snaps.

“Nothing, James Bond,” Ruby teases, glancing down at the gun in Bela’s hands. “It’s cute. Like you.”

The comment was intended to get a rise out of her, so Bela only rolls her eyes, suppressing the smile from some part of her that has deluded itself into thinking Ruby meant it.

“But you know a peashooter like that won’t do squat to a demon,” Ruby adds.

“I do know that,” Bela sighs. “But what else do we have?”

Ruby pauses to glare at the building. “We would have a demon-killing knife if the bastard hadn’t stolen it from me.”

Bela follows Ruby’s gaze, then turns back to her. “Is that what you’re after here?”

Ruby nods.

Something foreign lingers in Ruby’s eyes, Bela thinks. Anger, yes, but something stronger than that. Maybe fear? No, that doesn’t seem right. Do demons feel fear? Do demons feel anything?

“Well, I do love a challenge,” Bela says. “Shall we?”

She follows Ruby up to the warehouse and through the sliding metal doors.

After circling the stacks of metal shelves and rusted power equipment, Ruby lets out a sigh.

“I guess nobody’s home,” she concludes. “My knife should be here. The rest of his stuff, too. Let’s split up.”

Bela barely lets her hesitation delay her agreement. “Okay.”

There’s no reason to be worried. The demon should be wreaking havoc in town, far from here. Bela’s had a long career without needing backup, let alone from a demon she barely trusts.

Still, she can feel her heart pounding in her chest, sure it would give her away if the demon were here.

It’s not a big warehouse, no greater in size than her own house, but the emptiness, the quietness, makes it seem endless. Bela navigates her way across the faded yellow markings on the concrete floor, around the racks, an abandoned hand truck, a few cardboard boxes.

She reaches the corner and almost turns around before she sees it. Against the wall, next to an air vent, a large wooden trunk sits on the ground.

Glancing around once more, Bela kneels next to the trunk. It looks out of place here, old and worn in a way the rest of the place just looks abandoned.

She releases the latch, and lifts the cover. The sight that meets her leaves her without breath.

Ancient-looking books are stacked one on top of the other. Charms of all sizes made of wood and silver and brass, some bearing symbols even Bela doesn’t recognize, hang from the sides of the box. Cloth bags—hex bags—are piled up neatly in one corner next to a range of other items too wide for her to process all at once.

“Ruby,” she calls.

She hears light steps behind her growing closer as she hooks various charms around her finger and places them in a canvas sack. Any one of them could sell for thousands of dollars.

By the time Ruby reaches her side, she has already begun poking through the bags of voodoo.

Without a word, Ruby reaches into the trunk and picks up a knife, eyeing it with admiration.

“That it?” Bela asks.

Ruby nods. “This is it.”

As Ruby twirls it in her hands, Bela studies the knife. It’s a simple weapon. A well-worn wooden hilt holding a modest-sized blade with one serrated edge and markings etched onto the sides in some Middle Eastern language, Bela would guess.

“Come on,” Ruby prods. “We should go.”

Bela plucks a few books from the stack and shoves them in her bag before following Ruby.

Ruby slides open the door, and a force sends her flying backward.

Bela exclaims in surprise, dropping the bag.

A man with jet black hair bursts into the room. He starts toward Ruby, who landed across a row of shelves, but Bela catches his gaze. His eyes travel down to her feet.

The bag has fallen limp to the ground. One of the books Bela hastily crammed inside has toppled out. She can’t see the title, but the demon seems to recognize it as his own.

He flashes her an accusatory glare. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you that stealing is wrong?”

Bela stumbles backward, falling onto her hands.

The demon stalks toward her, ignoring the bag on the ground as he passes it. Black fills his vicious eyes.

Bela staggers back. He stands between her and the only exit, and she suspects she wouldn’t get far if she did run. He’s close enough to touch her now. She would barely have time to reach for the gun in her block-heeled boot.

The demon whips around, narrowly missing Ruby stabbing him through his back. She swings again, missing his chest. Instead, she buries the blade in his shoulder and yanks it out.

He screams in pain, doubling over.

“Let’s go,” she shouts to Bela.

Bela scrambles to swipe the bag from the ground and chases Ruby out the door. She hears heavy, staggering footsteps behind her but doesn’t look back.

“Drive!” she commands as she and Ruby dive into the car.

Ruby’s tires crackle on the dirt as she lurches onto the road. Bela turns back anxiously at the warehouse but sees no movement.

“What the hell was that?” she demands.

“That,” Ruby sighs, “was Raim. He’s a demon.”

“I gathered that much,” Bela snaps. “What was he doing there? I thought you said he wouldn’t be back.”

“I said I guessed he wouldn’t be back,” Ruby clarifies.

“Well, hooray for you.”

Ruby glances at her. “You want to keep bitching, or do you want to celebrate a job well done?”

Bela sighs. Her bag, full of priceless objects, sits heavily in her lap, and Ruby’s knife gleams with blood on the console.

“Okay,” Bela agrees. “I don’t know about you, but I could use a drink.”

Bela wakes in the middle of the night. The silky sheets of her hotel room bed surround her. She doesn’t remember switching off the lamp on her nightstand, but the room is dark.

After the job, she invited Ruby to her room for that drink. She doesn’t hear or see her now, so she assumes Ruby must have turned out the lights and gone home, wherever that is.

Bela sits up in bed. Still in a dreamy state, she knows she hasn’t slept long, but she doesn’t feel tired.

Then, she realizes, someone woke her up.

A chill runs down her spine. Something feels wrong.

She turns her head to face Raim.

Her own screams fill her ears, not pausing for the crunch of her neck twisting in the demon’s hands.

Bela startles awake, hands grasping at her unbroken neck. She sits in the chair in her room, where she remembers deciding to close her eyes for a few seconds. The lights are on, the way they were when she dozed off.

Ruby walks into her line of sight, a glass of ice and something clear in her hand.

She raises her eyebrows at Bela. “You okay?”

Bela runs a hand over her face, in a cold sweat, and smooths out her hair. “I’m fine,” she says, though her voice quivers.

“Well, we both know that’s a lie,” Ruby remarks.

Bela feels her eyes stinging. Before she can blink them away, tears trail down her cheeks.

She brushes them away, not meeting Ruby’s eyes. Bela waits for her to call her weak or delicate or human.

She hears the thump of Ruby’s glass on the counter. Bela thinks, by some miracle, Ruby will leave to let her flounder in her weakness alone.

Instead, she sits in the chair across from Bela’s, leaning forward, elbows on her knees.

“You can talk to me, you know?” Ruby says.

Surprised, Bela finally meets her gaze. Even more surprising is the softness she finds there. One could even mistake it for compassion.

“It was the spirits,” Bela explains, almost without meaning to. “I’ve been working with them long enough that they sometimes they send me warnings when I’m in danger.”

Ruby nods. “Okay. And?”

“And I think Raim is after me.”

Her voice cracks this time. Those dreams always leave her drained, and she doesn’t have the energy to fight the sob that jolts through her body.

She can’t go out like this, not yet. She knows exactly when her time will come, and it’s not now. But the thought of that demon makes her blood run cold through every inch of her.

Something brushes her shoulder, and she flinches away before she realizes it was Ruby’s hand.

Bela offers her a teary, apologetic look, which Ruby brushes off.

“We’ll work on a game plan in the morning. Why don’t you get some sleep?” she suggests. “I’ll be around.”

Bela wants to argue, but once she hears the idea, she can barely keep her eyes open.

Ruby leads her to the bed and pulls back the covers so Bela can collapse inside them. She clicks off the lamp on the bedside table.

As Bela watches Ruby’s silhouette walk back to her chair, the softness of the sheets and the darkness feel too familiar, too nightmarish.

“Ruby,” she voices.

Ruby turns around.

“Will you stay here?”

“I’ll be right here.”

“Will you stay here?” Bela pleads.

Ruby pauses. Bela can’t see her expression as she waits, suspended in the stillness and silence before she gets her answer.

Ruby walks to the other side of the bed. Bela feels the mattress dip behind her, feels arms encircle her.

Ruby runs her hand up and down Bela’s bare thigh. “You’re shaking.”

Upon realizing how terrified she is, how vulnerable she’s let herself become, Bela’s chest begins to tighten.

“Try to relax,” Ruby whispers so close to Bela’s ear she can feel her lips moving.

Bela forces a deep breath into her lungs and releases it shakily.

When Ruby’s lips drift from her ear along her jaw and down her neck, Bela cranes her head to face her, eyes wide.

Ruby pulls back only to place her lips softly on Bela’s.

Bela is too shocked to move at first. But soon, her lips push and pull in time with Ruby’s, parting enough for Ruby to taste her tongue. It’s all the permission Ruby needs.

She slips her hand to stroke the inside of Bela’s thigh, pausing when Bela gasps sharply.

“Just relax,” Ruby whispers.

Bela nods, surrendering her apprehension to Ruby, opening a door to her that hasn’t been opened in ages.

Bela closes her eyes. She feels Ruby peel back the blanket, sending a chill across her skin. Ruby makes her way down the buttons of Bela’s shirt, unhooking each one with ease.

Ruby places feather-light kisses from the valley between Bela’s breasts down to her navel. Bela shudders when she stops there, hands reaching out for her, begging her to continue.

Ruby’s fingers hook onto the waistband of Bela’s panties and pull them off. She returns to Bela’s mouth, pulling at her lip between her teeth.

Without warning, she skims her hand over Bela’s stomach and through her folds.

“Oh.” The moan escapes Bela’s lips of its own accord.

Ruby works her lips down to Bela’s breasts again. Bela reaches a hand up to tug at a fistful of Ruby’s hair as she works in circles.

Bela is almost embarrassed at how easily Ruby’s fingers slip into her. She can feel her own desire dripping, coating Ruby as she explores her.

She bites her lip when Ruby hits right there, and Ruby notices. She strokes the spot while her thumb rubs circles on Bela’s clit. Bela rolls her hips to the time.

Too soon, and yet not soon enough, Ruby removes her fingers and climbs down between Bela’s legs. Her hand is wet as she caresses Bela’s thigh. Her mouth disappears behind Bela’s body.

Bela can feel Ruby’s teeth grazing, her tongue thrusting, her lips sucking.

Then, Bela can only feel the coil buried deep within her winding tighter and tighter still.

It snaps.

Bela whimpers softly between gasps as she comes. Fresh tears fall into her hair.

“We’ve got a problem.”

Bela hears Ruby’s voice before she realizes she’s been shaken awake.

“What is it?” Bela slurs.

The last thing she remembers is the dust settling over the night before and Ruby climbing back into bed with her. Bela fell asleep in her arms then.

“It’s Raim,” Ruby says, out of breath as she darts across the room to close the blinds. “He’s coming.”

It takes Bela a few blinks to realize what she means. When she does, she almost can’t breathe.

“He’s coming here? How did he even find me?” she asks.

“Money’s on he’s tracking something in there.” Ruby nods to the canvas sack on the floor, filled with the stolen items.

“Then, we need to leave it and get out of here.”

“It’s too late. He’s already on top of us.”

As if on cue, a dark figure swings past the balcony and shatters the glass door.

Bela covers her head as she falls to the carpet. When she looks up again, she sees Raim glaring at her before Ruby stands in front of her, blocking the way.

“Ruby and knife, reunited,” Raim says, “albeit at my expense.”

“You stole it from me,” Ruby spits.

“You’re right,” he says. That’s why I don’t want to kill you Ruby. I’m here for the girl who helped herself to my hard-earned personal belongings.”

He tilts his head so Bela can see him, but Ruby steps in the way.

“You want her, you’ll have to go through me,” she says.

Raim clicks his tongue. “Haven’t we been through this before? Last time we went mano a mano, I ended up with that precious knife of yours.” He nods to where Ruby has raised the knife to chest level.

“You know what they say,” she says. “Today’s a new day.”

Raim lunges at Ruby. She thrusts her knee into his stomach, and he doubles over. She swings the knife at him, but he sidesteps her. He catches her arm and twists it with a crack. She yelps, and the knife falls out of her hand.

He picks her up by her jacket and punches her across the face, again and again, before shoving her head-first into the dresser.

She collapses at the foot of it, motionless.

He turns to Bela, who has risen to her feet, the sack in her hand.

She hurls the bag at his feet. “Please just take it,” she begs. “Leave me alone.”

“You still think this is just about the stuff?” he scoffs, kicking the bag out of his path as he walks toward her.

Bela looks at him in confusion as she backs away from him.

“This is about you people—humans—thinking you’re entitled to everything,” he sneers. “Earth, trinkets, ‘get out of hell free’ cards.”

He continues to walk toward her slowly. She feels her back hit the wall.

“Please,” she tries again. “I won’t bother you ever again. Just let me go.”

He pauses, as if considering. “I don’t think so.”

When he glares at her, Bela swears she can see the demon in his face. She shuts her eyes tight.

She hears him roar, then a crackling sound.

She opens her eyes in time to see him fall to the ground, orange still flickering from his eyes and mouth.

Ruby stands over his body, bloody and bruised. She holds her knife, the blade covered in red.

Ruby winces as Bela cleans the blood from her forehead with a washcloth.

“Sorry,” Bela whispers before continuing.

The two sit at the foot of the bed. Blood flows from a deep gash embedded in Ruby’s forehead. Shallow cuts and minor bruises on her face have already begun healing, which Bela attributes to her demonic healing qualities.

The sight of her—the thought that it was all to save Bela—tugs at Bela’s heart. Still, she feels lighter than she has in a while, since the two of them raided the demon’s warehouse. The fear that plagued her is gone.

Ruby, on the other hand, won’t meet her eyes.

Bela knows something is bothering her. Maybe guilt from killing a fellow demon, she thinks, or fear of retaliation from whoever may have considered Raim an ally. Whatever it is, she’ll give Ruby time to work through it on her own if that’s what she wants.

“Bela, I’m sorry,” Ruby says suddenly. “For this, for all of it.”

Bela furrows her brows. “You’re sorry?” she repeats. “Without you, I’d be dead.”

“Without me, he never would’ve been after you,” Ruby retorts.

Bela opens her mouth to argue but can’t find the words. Ruby was the one person she never considered placing the blame on for all of this, the one person she would have blamed had she been anyone but Ruby.

“I should’ve kept my trap shut,” Ruby continues. “It’s just, I knew you were in the area and…”

And I wanted to see you, she finishes in her mind when Ruby pauses.

“And I’m sorry.”

Oh.

Bela sighs, a sudden wave of confidence washing over her. “Well, I’m not.”

Ruby’s eyes flicker up to her finally. “You were terrified.”

“Yes, well…”

Bela thinks back to that deer in the forest, the one Ruby’s car scared off. It ran away, ran hard and fast, for what was probably the hundredth time in its life, and, for the hundredth time, it wasn’t caught. Tomorrow, it could be hit by a truck or killed by a hunter—a real hunter. But today, it’s safe.

“I’m not anymore,” she says.

She kisses Ruby. If she waited any longer, she would have lost her nerve. Even as their lips are pressed together, she’s half-afraid Ruby will pull away, that last night was more out of pity than anything.

But Ruby doesn’t pull away. She leans into Bela like she expected it, like she hoped for it.

And Bela repays her.

Tags: @ellie-andthemachine @gaybrieljax @electraphyng @emerald-watermelon-199 @mersuperwholocked-lowlife​

[imagineaworlds]

04//Mike the Inconvenience

summary: Olivia Grace is a motherfucking Magician. Yeah, she’s British. Yeah, she’s got a LOT of secrets– but doesn’t everyone? And she’s totally fucked up.

pairing: margo hanson x female!oc

word count: 2,505

warnings (for entire series): cursing. drug and alcohol use. drug and alcohol abuse. sex.

(1) - (2) - (3) - (4)

Grace was stumbling down the stairs just before she was knocked into by someone running up the stairs. She rolled her eyes and looked at the boy in front of her. It was Todd, one of the Physical kids living in the cottage, but forgotten by Grace and all of her friends.

“Sorry,” Todd apologized, then continued running up the stairs, afraid. Grace continued down the stairs, and she heard the laughter of Margo and Eliot.

“Todd?!” Margo joked. They continued to laugh as Grace leaned over the staircase railing and sighed. Eliot was first to notice her to which Margo turned around for. “Oh! Liv! Come here,” Margo waved her hands in her own direction. Grace threw her head back and unwillingly went down the stairs. “Question,” she whirled around to reveal a small pink bikini with gold chains covering her body. It was weird to have friends who trusted her to the point they were willing to show off their bodies to her. “Does this scream Ibiza or what?”

Shyly, Grace nodded.

“Liv,” Eliot gushed. He turned back to his packing and talked about his plans for Ibiza.

“Hey, El?” Margo stopped him. He looked up at her. “We haven’t invited anyone. Have we?”

Eliot shook his head. “No, but Ibiza’s our thing. It always has been. You can’t be serious. Dean Fogg would never allow it.”

Margo smiled, “Olivia, go grab your things. You’re coming to Ibiza with us!” Margo ran up a couple of steps to meet with Olivia. “Come on, you're going to need help packing all of those drugs in your case, ‘cause they are sure as hell coming with us,” she pulled Olivia up the stairs.

“I’ll just use a packing spell Alice taught me… Thank you, though,” Grace said uncomfortably.

“Nonsense,” Margo clapped her hands on Grace’s shoulders to stop their walking through the hallway. “I insist.”

For the next hour Grace and Margo were packing bathing suits on bathing suits, drugs on drugs, and the occasional shirt and shorts, but never anything noticeable in the pile of white and green in plastic bags. Grace had asked as a joke if everyone at Ibiza was always nude, and Margo plainly responded with a yes, then laughed hysterically. When it was all packed Margo helped Grace take the bags downstairs. Eliot was shuffling through papers and scratching his head. He was looking for some kind of spell in Arabic, or at least that’s what Grace could see from the papers and books he was rummaging through.

“I’m looking for a present for the elders who invited us, but I can't decide,” he admitted, tossing a book on the ground, frustrated.

“What did you guys do last year?” Grace asked.

Eliot opened another book. “A working bag of dicks.”

Grace immediately laughed. “Brilliant. Did they love it?”

“Oh, yes, they did…” Margo smirked, swaying her hips to the side as she bit her lip. “What are you deciding between, El?”

Eliot sighed and threw another book on the floor. It was the last book he had to throw, and all the other papers were crumpled, telling both Margo and Olivia that he was out of resources. “I heard some kids talking about a magical gin. Problem is, I only have half of the spell and there’s nothing in the cottage that even mentions the word gin.”

“Okay? So?”

“We,” he looked at both the girls, “have to go to the library.”

Margo’s face scrunched, her nose wrinkled, and it was all joined by a whine, “You must be joking.”

They had put it off all day. Margo, Eliot, and Olivia were doing everything they could to stay away from the terrible fact that they had to go to the dusty, long forgotten library somewhere in the middle of campus where all the nerds hung out. They even resulted to Google Magic for answers, but clearly everyone online didn’t have a clue or didn’t give a shit about actual magic. So the ugly truth became clear, and the three best friends walked to the library prepared to stay up until morning if they had to just to find the spell for the magic gin. When they got there, the place was empty except for the old and disgusting librarian. She was stubby, a bit overweight, and her back was hunched. Her grey hair resembled that of Albert Einstein, which made Grace want to laugh and point the joke out, but she stayed quiet. The librarian was stern, and if you made any noise louder than a whisper, she threw you out and banned you from the library, which didn’t sound all that bad to Grace, truth be told.

While Grace and Margo sat down, Eliot’s fingers skimmed over book spine’s and his eyes scanned the titles, looking for anything that could be helpful to their search. When he returned ten minutes later, he held five books. He slammed them on the table then grabbed the top book, falling into the chair next to Margo and across from Grace. Margo took the second book, and Grace the third. Upon opening the book, Grace noticed that it was all in Arabic, but when she focused on the letters she could suddenly understand everything she was reading. To make it weirder, she had never taken a foreign language class in her life, not even Spanish, and she had never seen an Arabic word in her entire life as far as she knew.

“What even is this?” Margo complained.

“It’s Arabic,” Eliot and Grace said at the same time.

“Ugh,” Margo shut her book, “A bag of dicks is sounding awfully good at the moment,” she joked, taking Eliot’s hand in hers. Grace laughed and got back to reading, taking a few notes.

“Copy that,” a man said from behind Eliot, still looking at the bookshelves. When he noticed that the attention had drifted to him, he faced them.  “My name’s Mike. You guys are reading Arabic, no?”

“We are…” Olivia answered.

“I aced it here a couple of years ago,” he began, “And without cheating.”

“Woah,” Margo whispered. The comment wasn’t made for Mike’s name or his ability to read and understand Arabic or his courage to make fun of Eliot, it was pointed at his looks. And gosh, he had looks. Grace thought to herself.

Mike did not differ from any other New Yorker, yet he managed to catch all of their eyes. Gay or otherwise. His blonde hair was cut short— definitely not long like Quentin’s or Eliot’s— He was wearing a plaid shirt with a suit coat and khakis. It was an acquired taste, supposedly. Margo was clearly suspicious of him, or jealous, Grace couldn’t quite place her finger on what Margo was feeling, or let alone the difference between the two when it did come to Margo.

“Eliot,” he held out his hand. “By the way.” Mike shook Eliot’s hand, but they didn’t let go. Grace and Margo looked to each other.

“Margo and Olivia,” Margo said, pointing to both the girls, but Eliot and Mike didn’t break gaze with one another.

By the time they were back at the cottage, they had found the spell (Without Eliot and Mike’s help, Margo would want everyone to know that it was Grace who found the information.) And when they were building for the spell, Mike and Eliot were still not helping, which irritated Margo to the point she yelled at them: “Just bang! Now!” And that’s what they did. For over two or three hours the two of them were in Eliot’s room, shaking the cottage. Literally.

“So I want everyone here to know that the two of you did nothing,” Margo snapped at the two men once they came downstairs. “Except for each other.” Margo and Grace had finished, finally, and it seemed that the boys did too. “Todd did more than you.”

Todd looked excited, but Grace gave him one nasty look and he was quiet.

“I’m sorry, Margo,” Mike said sincerely. “I really do hope that we get to know each other. You, too, Olivia.”

“Oh, um, Mike,” Eliot stopped him. “Margo and I are fortunate enough to get away with calling her Olivia… I don’t want to find you dead,” Eliot joked and looked at Grace.

She gave him a sour smile before starting the machine for the gin. It rattled for a while, then came to a stop. Nothing happened.

“Well, that was underwhelming.”

Following Eliot's comment that came too early, the bottle filled to the top with what looked to be a liquid. Margo made a snide comment and gripped the bottle, ordering Todd to get olives and glasses as she popped the cork off. The lights flickered and smoke filled the room. It wasn’t magic exactly, but instead a crappy looking, real life CGI-ed genie.

“Shit…” Eliot muttered. Noticing everyone’s confusion in the cottage, he turned to them and explained, “It’s not gin, as in: g-i-n,” —Eliot loved spelling those kinds of things out—  “It’s jinn: j-i-n-n. The Arabic word.”

Margo laughed, “No fucking way. What kind of jinn is he? Like a three wish kind o’ guy or an any wish means endless possibilities?”

Todd stepped forwards, “Actually, Margo… Because you opened the bottle and freed him, he’s in your service and will only respond to you.”

“Mental,” Grace whispered.

She watched as the jinn eased and bowed to Margo. “نعم عشيقة.” Is what he said, which Grace easily translated to: “Yes, mistress.” Then he walked to Mike, pushed Eliot out of the way, and gripped at Mike’s neck. Everyone was in a state of panic by such point because the jinn was attacking someone, and even Eliot tried to help, but the jinn and Mike disappeared as Eliot was about to trap them.

“Okay, Bambi, what the hell?” Eliot exclaimed when he stood up straight. “Why did you wish away my boyfriend?!”

Margo laughed and set down the jinn bottle on the table. She was frustrated with him and his accusations, and why he felt it was okay to treat her like shit just because they weren’t as close anymore. Or at least that’s what Grace got from the way Margo was responding. It was hard for Olivia Grace to understand what everyone was saying because they were screeching in each other’s faces and she had taken a few extra ecstasy pills once she and Margo were done packing her stuff for Ibiza.

Ibiza. That was something Grace was looking forward to while she fell onto the couch, blocking out her friend’s bickering. She needed to get away from Brakebills and Quentin, though both he and Alice were at Brakebills South and would be until the day after the girls went to Ibiza for break. Two weeks of alcohol, drugs, and sex was what Grace needed to forget everything and move on with her life. She was at Brakebills to learn magic, become like her mother and father, and live out the rest of her life as a legitimate Magician. That’s what excited Grace the most. She finally had something to put effort towards. High school was fun and all, but college and magic was really what made sense to her. Sometimes she feared magic would become an addiction too. What’s the harm in one more addiction? Grace kept reminding herself.

Just remember, Vivie, you’re the disappointment. The one who’s different from the rest of the world, loves someone for their personality and not their sexuality or gender. You’re the one who never made the cut for Brakebills until two months after the official Exam. That’s what Grace kept saying to herself, and, yes, most of it was true but it never meant she had to beat herself up about it. Liam always told her it was important to stay true to yourself and not lie to anyone about it. If people had any issues with Olivia, they’d have to talk to Liam about it, which usually meant a black eye or two and a few broken bones and teeth. Big brother’s have the tendency to be overprotective, and Grace had her protector.

Once Margo and Eliot were finally done arguing and had agreed that Margo could have possibly been responsible for Mike’s disappearance, they went on a hunt for El’s sudden boyfriend, which neither Margo nor Grace approved of. Like Eliot cared. They were headed to the library, where they met Mike. Margo admitted she thought Mike should go back from where he came, which Todd figured out was where ever they met Mike. Just so happened, that was at the library, the one place they thought they would never return to. Grace was being pulled Margo who was following a half clothed Eliot.

“You don’t think he’s mad, right?” Margo said to Grace. Olivia shrugged her shoulders as she walked on her own and not being dragged around. “I mean… They only met today, banged a couple of times in one day, and that’s it. It’s impossible for them to be in love and shit suddenly. Isn’t it?”

“Margo, why don’t you just talk to him? We go to Ibiza tonight, so talk to him before that,” Grace guided. Margo sighed and looked at Eliot’s back and his long curls, longing for her best friend. She smiled at Grace and rested her head on the Brit’s shoulder as they continued to walk. Margo Hanson may have not had Eliot Waugh wrapped around her finger anymore, but she sure had Olivia Grace under her trance—  Metaphorically speaking.

Margo was ready to leave for Ibiza, the hub of partying for Magicians. Grace was still upstairs, thinking about why she was leaving and what good would come from it if she stayed or left. But against everything running through her mind she picked up her suitcase and went to the stairs. She could hear Margo complaining about Eliot not going to Ibiza with her, but Eliot responded with an apology, followed up by him saying some things about Mike.

“But what about Olivia?” Eliot snickered, “Hm?”

There was an unauditable retort from Margo.

“Oh, come on, Bambi! Just tell me you’ll at least kiss her.”

“I don’t know what you're talking about,” she said, followed by something else unauditable to Grace.

“I see the way you look at her…”

Margo sighed, “It’s not that obvious,” she declared. “Is it?”

Eliot laughed. “Come here, Bambi.” Grace pictured them hugging and swaying together. “You have fun without me, you hear? And remember, sun screen, waxing, and a lot of drinking. I’ll be disappointed if you return with more than a single swimsuit.”

Grace took this as her chance to show them she was there. “Are we ready?”

Margo turned to her, “Yeah, just one more thing. Todd!” she called. Todd came running in from the kitchen as if he too were eavesdropping. “Grab a swimsuit. You’re coming to Ibiza with us ladies.”

“Actually?!” Todd jumped up and down.

“Yes. So get a move on.”

[northcountryschool]

October 9, 2020

Photo: 5th- and 6th-graders participate in WARP with English teacher, Isaac.

At North Country School, we believe that nurturing a child’s curiosity and wonder is a crucial part of the educational experience. When we were founded over eighty years ago, Walter and Leonora Clark knew that these aspects of learning and growing didn’t just occur in the academic classroom, but when children were given the space and the time to use their imaginations and to play. Today, North Country School continues to be that place to play, where students can be silly, can imagine new worlds, and can be creative together. This aspect of our philosophy is never more evident than during our annual WARP, or Wilderness Active Role Play, event. 

Each year, WARP invites our entire school community to embark on fantastical quests, battle monsters in the name of good, and solve riddles together using shared knowledge. Though we have had to restructure WARP this year in order to keep our community healthy and safe—instead of one big, community-wide event it's now spread over 10 sessions with smaller groups—it is clear that none of the magic has been lost. Over the past few weeks we have loved watching our students adventuring through our campus woods, donning homemade costumes as they embarked on magical quests. We are grateful for the opportunity to preserve this part of childhood for the students in our care, and will continue to adapt to the new challenges that come our way, making sure to take that necessary time to simply play. 

ACADEMICS

Top: Rob shows 4th grade how to make rope. Middle 1: Tiago makes rope. Middle 2: Melissa teaches English in the butterfly house. Middle 3: Grace writes poetry on the Mountain Bench. Bottom:Tyler writes poetry in a crabapple tree. 

This week our students spent time in our outdoor classroom spaces learning new skills as well as delving deeper into their existing interests. As part of their unit learning about Indigenous groups in the Adirondack region, our 4th-grade social studies students began constructing a model of a Haudenosaunee longhouse. 7th-grade teacher Rob visited the class to talk about how early civilizations used natural materials to make cordage, and led the group in a cordage-making activity. Some of the cordage made will be incorporated into the larger structure as the class gets further into the longhouse construction process. 

 Melissa’s 8th-grade English students enjoyed the views from the Butterfly House this week for their Reading in the Zone: Finding "Just Right" Books conversation, where they discussed the value of reading books about a variety of subjects and with varying levels of difficulty. They also spent time working on their original poetry by the crabapple trees and on the Mountain Bench, which was built by graduating 9th graders several years ago and depicts a 360-view of the mountains surrounding the NCS campus.

Top: Garth’s geometry class has fun with their math activity. Middle: Eden corrects a geometry problem. Bottom: Correcting a geometry problem. 

Garth’s 9th-grade geometry class had a great time with math this week as they reviewed what they’ve been learning in their constructions unit. By using a compass and straightedge to work through problems, the students acted as the teachers, grading a fake test with incorrect answers. After finding the errors present in each answer, the group shared their conclusions with their peers.

ARTS

Top: River and his coaster. Middle: Duncan sands his coaster. Bottom: Elie shows his students how to sand in the outdoor woodshop. 

Over in the woodshop, our 5th- and 6th-graders continued to work on their coaster projects at our outdoor workshop stations. The projects, inspired by the Offerman Woodshop and woodworker Krys Shelley, allows students to practice some of their foundational woodworking skills including designing, measuring, hand-cutting, hand-sanding, and gluing. Many of our students plan to give the coasters–which are made from campus maple—as gifts to their friends and family members for the holiday season. 

Top: Noni winds up campus yarn. Middle 1: Grace needle felts a Coraline doll. Middle 2: Needle felting a face. Middle 3: Josie needle felts a cat. Bottom: Colorful campus wool.

Arts students at North Country School are able to use the wool sheared from our sheep for many different types of fiber projects. Some of our wool is spun into yarn that is used for knitting projects and is woven into pillows and blankets on our looms, while some is kept unspun and used for needle felting. This week our 8th-grade artists began their creative needle-felting projects, and we were excited to see the vibrant wool take form as Josie’s cat, Maple, as Tyler’s sunset landscape, and as Grace’s recreation of the Coraline doll from the stop-motion film, Coraline. 

OUTDOORS

Top: 5th- and 6th-graders participate in WARP. Middle 1: Sophie “Lord of the Rebels” in her WARP costume. Middle 2: Looking for WARP clues. Middle 3: 9th graders Ella and Teagan as magical characters in WARP. Bottom: A fork in the road. 

At North Country School, our annual WARP, or Wilderness Active Role Play, event is a highly anticipated day of the year. In the past, WARP has taken place as an all-day, all-school event where students and teachers dress in homemade costumes, wield foam swords, and battle monsters throughout our campus woods. As with many things this year, we have had to change parts of WARP in order to keep our community safe and healthy, but we haven’t lost any of the spirit behind this fun event. 9th-grader Ella took on the restructuring of WARP as an independent study project, and has created different WARP out-times for each grade level that incorporate academic content into their different challenges. In order to succeed in their quests, students must use what they have learned in their classes, finding clues, and deciphering riddles alongside their in-character teachers. Though this year’s WARP may look a bit different, our students have still been having a blast working together while exploring campus, just as they always have during this whimsical and immersive event. 

Top: A walk in the autumn woods. Middle 1: Rock climbing at the Climbing Crag. Middle 2: Building the campus treehouse. Middle 3: Trail work on the Skihill. Bottom: Steven in a leaf pile. 

Our campus was the perfect autumnal playground this week, and students took full advantage of the beautiful weather while exploring the trails during out-times and on weekend trips. One group of students got in some quality time rock climbing at the Crag, while another spent the afternoon working on the campus treehouse, which is being rebuilt from the ground up as part of this fall’s Design and Build arts class. On Saturday, a group of our older students worked hard for the community while doing some trail maintenance on our Skihill, getting the terrain in top shape for what we hope will be a winter season full of skiing and snowboarding. Meanwhile, all across campus, we watched as our entire student body had a ball while participating in that timeless autumn activity–jumping in leaf piles.

FARM AND GARDEN

Top: Grace L. on a horse. Middle: Saturday trail ride. Bottom: Grace D. with the sheep. 

The beautiful autumn backdrop also provided our students the perfect opportunity to spend time on horseback. This past week saw students riding horses during Wednesday homenight—an afternoon and evening set aside for students to spend time with their housemates and houseparents—as well as on weekend trips and during out-times. One Saturday trip took a trail ride around Dexter Pasture, before heading down to the barn to say hello to our flock of sheep and our goats, Dumbo and Bambi. 

Top: Tess shows Zachary the seeder. Middle 1: Koga uses the seeder to plant spinach. Middle 2: Landon shells dried beans. Bottom: Dry beans waiting to be shelled. 

In our 8th-grade Edible Schoolyard class, students have been learning about seeds, seed saving, and seed sovereignty—the right of growers to save and replant non-GMO seeds. This week students spent time in the greenhouses, working with Garden Manager Tess to sort through the Vermont cranberry beans they’d harvested the week before. After a lesson on winter greenhouse growing, each student took a turn seeding spinach using the Earthway seeder. The spinach planted will grow slowly in our unheated greenhouse throughout the cold winter months, and be ready to harvest as our first greens in the early spring. The colorful dried beans will be stored and used throughout the year in our campus dining room. 

Check back next week to see what we’re up to on our mountain campus.

For more information about the #ThisWeekAtNCS blog, contact Becca Miller at bmiller@northcountryschool.org.

For general school information, call 518-523-9329 or visit our website:

www.northcountryschool.org

[kadobeclothing]

Jeremy Bamber’s deluded cheerleaders are a disgrace – he IS guilty of monstrous White House Farm murders – The Sun

THE scene that greeted the police was one of almost unimaginable, blood-soaked carnage. Once officers had entered the remote Essex farmhouse on the morning of 7 August 1985, they discovered five murder victims, all of whom had been shot dead. 14 An emotional Jeremy Bamber at the funeral of his victims, where he was comforted by girlfriend JulieCredit: News Group Newspapers Ltd14 His crocodile tears are depicted in ITV’s upcoming show White House FarmCredit: ITVOne slumped body, that of a middle-aged man, had also been battered repeatedly with the butt of a rifle. In total, the killer had unloaded 25 bullets from a semi-automatic weapon during this lethal rampage. At first, the police suspected the culprit was one of the victims, Sheila Caffell, a former model with a long history of mental illness. According to their initial theory, she had been so deranged by a psychotic episode that she had gunned down her six-year-old twin boys, Nicholas and Daniel, as well as her adoptive parents Nevill and June Bamber, before she put the rifle to her own throat and pulled the trigger. This was a narrative that Sheila’s half-brother, 24-year-old Jeremy Bamber, eagerly relayed to the police. Indeed, on that fateful August night, Jeremy Bamber, who lived in cottage near his parents’ farm, had telephoned the local Essex station, telling them that his father had just rung to say Sheila had “gone beserk” with a gun. 14 Sheila Caffell and her twin sons Nicholas and Daniel died in the sickening shootingsCredit: Times Newspapers Ltd14 White House Farm was the scene of a bloodbath in August 1985Credit: PA:Press AssociationBut, as revealed in new ITV drama White House Farm, which begins this week, suspicion soon began to fall on Jeremy rather than Sheila. His champagne-fuelled hedonistic behaviour, featuring several holidays abroad, in the aftermath of the murders was not that of a grieving son, despite his dramatic tears at the funeral. He also had a clear motivation for the killing, since he stood to inherit his parent’s £436,000 farm. Moreover, the evidence piled up against him, including both incriminating testimony from an ex-girlfriend and the discovery in a cupboard at the farm of a rifle silencer with specks of Sheila’s blood on it. The silencer appeared to absolve Sheila. There was no way she could have lain on the ground, shot herself twice, then stood up, removed the silencer from the rifle, and hidden it away before she died. 14 Model Sheila ‘Bambi’ Caffell was the initial suspect in the killingsCredit: Rex FeaturesMonstrous barbarity With such an overwhelming case against him, Jeremy Bamber was duly convicted in 1986 and sentenced to 25 years. Later this was raised to a “whole life” term, which means that he will probably never be released. In fact, given his youth at the time of the killings, he may end up serving the longest sentence in British penal history. But that is no more than he deserves, given the scale of his monstrous barbarity. 14 Jeremy Bamber is driven to his trial in 1986Credit: Rex FeaturesHis is one of the most gruesome but compelling sagas in the annals of British crime, which is why the new ITV production should make for powerful viewing. The series stars Cressida Bonas as the vulnerable Sheila Caffell, while Bamber is played by the dashing Freddie Fox, who brings out the murderer’s mix of dark charm and cruel psychopathy. Sheila’s estranged husband Colin Caffell recently described Bamber as an “extremely seductive and charismatic person”, which helps to explain why he initially fooled the Essex police.Deluded campaign Yet he is still fooling people. Despite the strength of evidence against, there is a noisy campaign to have Bamber declared innocent. Peddling its propaganda through websites, social media, and left-wing journals, this deluded brigade argues that Bamber is the victim of a “miscarriage of justice.” He did not receive “a fair trial” because the proceedings against him were “highly irregular”, says the veteran human rights activist Peter Tatchell, while Eric Allison, patron of the official Bamber Campaign, calls the failure to release all the documents in the case “a shocking state of affairs.” 14 Cressida Bonas plays victim Sheila in the drama14 Freddie Fox as Bamber in White House Farm14 The wedding of Sheila Bamber to Colin Caffell, whose children were murdered at the farmCredit: AlamyBizarre conspiracies A vast range of conspiracy theories are said to be behind Bamber’s unsafe conviction, including a police cover-up, the greed of relatives angry at Bamber’s inheritance, the spite of his ex-girlfriend Julie Mugford, and shadowy political vested interests. This is all offensive nonsense. The campaign is not only a moral disgrace but also had not a shred of justification. It is shameful to see these zealots lining up behind a child killer whose defence is so threadbare and whose record is so evil. In 2002, when the Court of Appeal upheld the original verdict for the second time, the judges declared, “The more we looked into this case, the more likely it seemed that the jury was right.” Those words are just as correct today. 14 White House Farm as seen in the new drama seriesEven Bamber’s own shrill defenders admit that there are only two possible suspects: him or Sheila. But the idea that petite Sheila, who suffered from anorexia, was capable of such violence is laughable. She had no interest in guns, no experience of using them. Nor could she have got into a struggle with her 6 foot 4 inch tall father Nevill. Her feet, hands and nightdress were almost free of blood and gun residue, hardly indicator of someone who has been on a shooting spree. And even Bamber’s staunchest supporters have no convincing explanation for the discovery of the silencer, beyond the usual lurid claims that it was “planted.” 14 Jeremy Bamber still protests his innocence despite the evidenceCredit: Handout14 Mark Stanley as grieving father Colin Caffell’Afraid to turn back’ on Bamber On the other hand, Jeremy Bamber was used to handling guns, had an air of menace about him and harboured a deep hostility towards his adoptive parents. “I must never turn my back on him,” Nevill once said, fearing that “there might be a serious shooting.” Bamber planned the whole killing spree meticulously, from disconnecting the phones at the farm to stop any emergency calls to misleading the police at the scene with his talk of Sheila being “a nutter”. In fact, he eagerly told his girlfriend at the time, Julie Mugford, what he contemplated saying, “tonight or never,” as she later reported to the police. The “Bamber is Innocent” mob argue that Ms Mugford acted purely out of revenge, Bamber having dumped her soon after the murders. But it is highly unlikely that she would have risked a perjury charge in such a serious murder case on such an emotive basis. 14 Nevill and Juen Bamber were slaughtered alongside their daughter and grandchildrenCredit: Collect14 The bloody case left Britain in shockCredit: News Group Newspapers LtdChilling echoes of murderer Tellingly, the late Bob Woffinden, a forensic journalist with a record of fighting miscarriages of justice, used to think Bamber was innocent, but later became convinced of his guilt, after he researched the story in depth. “I am now certain that the murderer was indeed Jeremy Bamber,” Woffinden wrote in 2011. Those who still cling to the belief in a miscarriage of justice should remember the case of James Hanratty, who went to the gallows in 1962 for murder and rape in a lay-by off the A6 after he hijacked a car at gunpoint. PURE EVIL CCTV of UK’s worst rapist who attacked up to 195 victims prowling for men WINTER CHAOS Snow, torrential rain and 80mph gales from Iceland to hit Britain this week InvestigationPERVS’ PLAYGROUND Parents’ horror as kids as young as 8 are groomed by paedos on TikTok app TALCUM CHOWDER Mum spends £8k on addiction to eating BABY POWDER – and scoffs a tub a day BreakingFREEDOM IN SIGHT Ayia Napa Brit teen ‘to be PARDONED by Cypriot President’ after backlash DEATH FROM SPACE Australia wildfires image shows thousands of blazes raging across country For decades, there was a loud campaign to pardon Hanratty, who was portrayed by supporters as nothing more than a harmless petty crook. Yet in 2002, advances in DNA proved conclusively that Hanratty was in fact the A6 killer. The campaign for Hanratty had been utterly baseless.   If the ITV drama has any integrity, it will reinforce the same grim truth about Bamber. White House Farm airs on ITV from 9pm on Wednesday Trailer for Jeremy Bamber documentary Countdown to Murder about White House Farm killings in August 1985

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[theconservativebrief]

If you’ve ever experienced the misfortune of taking a photo of yourself that will end up on the internet, you have contemplated the weight of the following question: How should I move the muscles in my face to communicate my identity in the most socially correct way possible?

For many of us, the answer is clear: a smile, with teeth! And yet thanks to the proliferation of social media, dating apps, and technology that makes taking selfies infuriatingly addicting (curse you, portrait mode), human beings are now forced to pose for more photos than at any other point in history. And in that span of time, we’ve had to innovate.

Selfie trends are not new, exactly. Since the dawn of duckface in the mid-2000s — the act of pursing one’s lips and pushing them forward as if leaning in for a particularly theatrical kiss — we’ve replaced it with “sparrow face,” “migraine face,” belfies, T-rex hands, Bambi-ing, and that weird thing where teens cover their entire face with one hand, thus eliminating the purpose of a selfie in the first place.

Nearly all of said selfie crazes are performed by women, and we rarely discuss the ones percolating among men. But all along, there has been a single face that’s gone entirely unnoticed for the past decade-plus of its existence. It is this: raised eyebrows, and tightened lips.

“This is a face that says, ‘I’m kind of fun!’ but still reminds you, the viewer, ‘I am a tough, serious dude.” —Alex Kirshner

This face is everywhere. Though I have surely done it at one point or another, it is especially prevalent among guys who are somewhere in between teenagehood and middle age, the period of life most fraught with questions and doubts about one’s place in the world. It is a face that expresses this uncertainty — it is both happy and sad, surprised and indifferent, hopeful and cynical, studied and spontaneous.

And for a very long time, I despised it. Every time I’d see a crush doing it on Instagram (a lot!) I would experience a deep, full-bodied pang of cringiness. To me, it always recalled the fraudulent “who, me?” poses of early 2000s pop-punk lead singers, an expression of nice-guyness reserved for dudes who would later ask you for nudes via MySpace.

Today, though, I think the face communicates a certain world-weariness that I find incredibly relatable. The bewilderment of the raised eyebrows is offset by a tautness in the mouth that reads as disappointment. The eyes, too, often have a certain deadness about them. Which, same!

According to body language expert Traci Brown, what the face is actually broadcasting is that the person doesn’t really want to be taking the photo in the first place. “There’s no smile — their eyes are kind of wide. They’re doing it because they have to, like they’re forced into it,” she told me over the phone recently. It makes sense, then, that men might be more likely to make a face that screams, “I am uncomfortable!” while participating in an act that is often coded as feminine.

When I showed her a photo of professionally annoying 20-year-old social media phenom Nash Grier making the face, Brown described it: “He’s not showing emotion like he really wants to be there. He’s like, ‘Ah, I gotta take this picture.’ When his eyebrows are raised, that shows emphasis on a certain point. So he’s just trying to emphasize that he doesn’t want to do it.”

“The tightening of the face muscles you have to do to make the face in question here also comes with, like, a 5 percent smirk, almost a hint of a hint of a smirk.” — Richard Johnson

To find out why so many youngish men who are not former teen Vine stars are making this face, I asked a variety of them. As it turns out, there are a lot of reasons, from a desire to hide one’s “jacked-up teeth” to an attempt to erase all the sadness from one’s face and create a facsimile of happiness. Spoiler: A lot of the reasons are sort of dark!

“First, it avoids crazy eyes — not all of us can smize like Tyra. Second, it’s hard to get a real smile (with teeth!) right without looking like a goober. It took me roughly 1,500 selfies during my trip to Peru to get my easy, breezy, and convincing selfie smile down. Third, it mimics the face you make when you see someone and think, ‘Ah, what a nice surprise!’ Last but not least, it’s exactly what comes up when you Google ‘Confident Face.’ Try it.” —Max Garelick, 26, works in finance

“You start off wanting to get a selfie where you look natural, happy, and attractive, but in every picture, your eyes are closed or you smile like a serial killer. After, like, five attempts, you just do the face so at least you have a shoot with your eyes open [and] you don’t look totally pissed off at the world, and call it a day. Guys just don’t have the patience to take a good selfie.” —C.J. Martinez, 26, producer

“Why do I make the face? A few reasons:

When I force a smile, it looks like an alien trying to replicate a human smile for the first time.

When I press my lips together, my eyebrows kind of naturally rise, which does give an added benefit of reducing my fivehead back down to a forehead.

Unsure why I regularly include some sort of hand gesture. Thumbs-up, peace sign, hang loose, I’m also working on reclaiming the ‘OK’ hand sign. I think the hand just kind of helps fill out some of the negative space in the photo, or maybe it distracts the viewer from my face (another bonus).

“All of this is probably just made up to make myself feel good and I do it totally subconsciously.” —Kyle Jackson, 29, project manager

“I think the hand just kind of helps fill out some of the negative space in the photo, or maybe it distracts the viewer from my face (another added bonus).” —Kyle Jackson

“This is a face that says, ‘I’m kind of fun!’ but still reminds you, the viewer, ‘I am a tough, serious dude, and I barely have time to engage in such trivial things as selfies.’ It’s the pictorial equivalent of putting exactly one foot in the pool, so I’m participating but not vulnerable in any real way, because who cares about looks? I need to grow up.” —Alex Kirshner, 24, college football writer

“This face is a male equivalent of the duckface. It’s an entry-level, go-to, easy-to-pull-off pose for a man to use in a photo without much effort or risk. I usually choose not to make this face in any photo taken of me. Instead, I opt for a laugh/smile that instead makes me so squinty it looks like my eyes are closed because I’m blinded by the sun. Also not a good look, but it’s really all I’ve got. I think bros make this face because they believe it gives off a combination of mysteriousness and quirkiness at the same time. The raised eyebrows signal, ‘Oh, wow, you caught me off guard! Ha! Oh, a photo of me?’ which deep down is a way for the subject to justify the fact that they’re taking a selfie. The smirk is like, ‘I’m too cool for school but I’ll still take this selfie because hey, I’m a fun guy.’

“Sidebar: For some reason, I think it’s fairly accepted that women take selfies — but if you catch a guy trying to get a fit pic off in a public bathroom, it usually makes everyone feel awkward. I believe we should work together to reverse this trend and support the dude that’s just trying to flex a bit to feel good about himself.” —Max Levitzke, 27, works in solar energy

“It’s an entry-level, go-to, easy-to-pull-off pose for a man to use in a photo without much effort or risk.” —Max Levitzke

“I don’t usually take these types of selfies very often, but I feel like what it’s communicating is, ‘I wanna send you a pic of me smiling, but I don’t want to fully smile because that’s too cheesy, so here’s a pic of me with somewhat of a half-smirk so you know that I’m excited about what you’re talking about but don’t want to come across as overly excited.’ I know that probably doesn’t make any type of sense, but the male brain can be strange. I feel like I’ve sent these type of selfies usually through Snapchat so they can disappear. Also maybe men just aren’t good at taking selfies? I know personally I’m quite trash at it.” —Joe Ali, 25, shooter/editor

“Some combination of shyness and plain old male lizard brain command me not to smile. It’s something I’ve increasingly tried to override — smiling is good and makes everyone feel good! — but my instincts don’t want me to. I guess smiling feels like it’s too much? Or maybe I’d just feel exposed. I’ve got pretty jacked-up teeth.” —Seth Rosenthal, 29, video producer

“Ugh, I have made the selfie face you are referring to but I’m not sure I ever realized I was doing it until now. Add it to the pile of things to be insecure about. I think it happens a lot more when you have to take it for a dating app. I think the raising of the eyebrows is meant to, like, soften your face? Like, eyebrows up means ‘hey! :)’ and eyebrows down or neutral means ‘hey.’ As far as the tight-lipped thing, that’s just dudes not wanting to smile because it makes you vulnerable or whatever.” —Ryan Simmons, 30, video producer

“I feel like I’ve sent these type of selfies usually through Snapchat so they can disappear.” —Joe Ali

“I feel like this may be inherently a look with a hint of shame among us men, because in the traditional sense, dudes aren’t even really supposed to be taking selfies, are we? When the selfie really started taking off in the Myspace 2009-ish days, duckface was all the rage thanks to the mirror pic and there was no way in hell 16-year-old me was going to be caught dead doing duckface (because that was for girls, of course).

“Fast-forward a decade or so and maybe I’m still a little held back by the faux machismo prepubescent me subscribed to in regards to the selfie. Besides that, I think the face is also pretty neutral. I’m not gonna frown in a selfie because that would look dumb. But then again, if I flash some toothy grin in a solo selfie, that looks kinda dumb too. I mean, how happy am I really supposed to be about taking a selfie? The tightening of the face muscles you have to do to make the face in question here also comes with, like, a 5 percent smirk, almost a hint of a hint of a smirk. I’m too cool for school (and by school, I mean emoting in a tangible way).” —Richard Johnson, 25, sports writer

“Something to do with the perceived masculinity of selfies. Smiling naturally would imply that I enjoy this teenage girl ritual way too much. The eyebrow raise and nonchalant smirk gives the appearance that I don’t care about my appearance and that I didn’t retake this five or 10 times — even though they did.” —Zach French, 32, business development manager

“Is this what happiness looks like?” —Mike Imhoff

“I think (generally) guys are less comfortable taking photos than girls. But I think everyone has a game plan when it comes to photos. Instead of having to wing it, you just have your go-to because you generally know the outcome, the same way girls do the cross leg/arm bent on the waist/lean-in formula. (I tend to do this open mouth grin thing like I’m doing a big laugh.)

“Guys also potentially feel a certain vulnerability, or perceived vulnerability, when it comes to photos. Like, it’s uncool to enjoy being photographed. So the more you downplay it, the more comfortable you feel (like how guys follow everything they text with ‘haha’ or ‘lol’ in text, even when they’re not even attempting to be funny). —Mark Topel, 30, senior copywriter

“I would say it’s the equivalent of unnecessarily crumpling and eating a journal entry just because someone walked in the room. You need to hurry up and get all that deep sadness out of your face before the camera goes off. Is this what happiness looks like?” —Mike Imhoff, 30, senior director

As I expected, men have a lot of very different reasons for performing this particular facial expression. All of them, however, support the idea that being a person with a face who sometimes has to post photos of that face on the internet can be a very fraught activity — even for men. Who knew!

Original Source -> Why do guys always make the same face in selfies?

via The Conservative Brief

[sending-the-message]

It's my first time in an American forest, and to hell with this shit, seriously. by EmilyBlue-242

So I'm one of those 'long time lurker, first time poster' people (howdy!). Anyway, a few years ago I (Welsh, born and raised) ended up sharing university accommodation with Cassie, an American who had for some reason decided to attend Aberystwyth University. I'll spare you our long and colourful history along the path to becoming best friends. Suffice it to say, Cassie and I are pretty tight.

Even now, years after leaving uni, and despite being on different sides of the Atlantic, we're still practically sisters. So when she invited me and my fiancé Jim to spend a week indulging in drunken shenanigans in a cabin in the middle of nowhere? Who am I to say no!

Cassie met us at the airport, she even had a board with our names on it. "Blue & Jones", we almost sounded professional. From there she whisked us out to meet a group of her friends - her brother Kit, her girlfriend Rice, Alex, Jay, Craig, Curtis, and a pair of twins who looked like cheerleader stereotypes brought to life. One was Ruby and one was Topaz, but I lost track of which was which before we even got in the cars. One started out with a camera, but since they were passing it back and forth that didn't help.

Rice drove a minivan, Curtis had what he called a 'truck' - cab up front, flatbed, that sort of thing. It was a pretty uneventful drive up, mostly just catching up on things with Cassie. The boys, apart from Jim and Kit, were in the truck. I'm assuming a minivan wasn't quite manly enough for them. We were getting pretty far out from civilisation, eventually turning onto this narrow, gravelly trail through some real dense forest. Like I said, I'm Welsh, so a one-track road in the middle of nowhere didn't upset me.

What did upset me was when Curtis suddenly slammed the brakes on up ahead. I didn't see what happened - I was in the middle of an hilarious anecdote when Rice suddenly stood on the brakes. We slid a little on the gravel before stopping, and by the time I looked out through the front windscreen the boys were already piling out of the truck, running around to the front.

Naturally we followed suit. "We hit a deer!" Jay called back, "Motherfucker came out of nowhere!"

The twins let out matching cries of horror, and I did the same. My first glimpse of American wildlife, and it was splashed all over the bonnet of Curtis' truck. Still, I went up to take a look with the others and it... It wasn't what I was expecting.

I don't know how to describe what was wrong with the deer. There was just something about it which didn't quite look right, you know? Like something about the angle of the legs, or the shape of it's antlers, or even just the way its eyes sat in its head.

I mentioned this, and though a second before I swear everyone had been looking just as unsettled as I felt, they all started laughing. What did I know about white-tailed deer, after all? Especially one which had been hit by a car. Of course it wouldn't look right. Besides, maybe it had a birth defect, or old injuries that hadn't set right, maybe it had been slightly mutated by pollutants.

Everyone had a reason for why I was wrong. Craig and Jay both know how to butcher a carcass, apparently ("Remind me again why we're going into the woods with these people?" Jim whispered to me), and since we were on Cassie and Kit's private property there was no reason to let Bambi lay by the side of the road and rot. Curtis' truck was, miraculously, still drivable, so off we headed.

The place was your typical quaint little log cabin, set dead-centre in a circle of green lawn. Around the edge of the lawn was this circle of stones, only about a foot high, set two or three feet apart from each other. They looked almost like a boundary marker, and Kit said that's what they'd used them as when visiting the cabin as kids. Their grandfather let them play outside unsupervised all they liked, so long as they stayed on the house side of the stones. I can see why, too. Even discounting the deer-stop, it had taken us about two hours to drive out here, dense forest stretching away on every side. Thinking about a child wandering off into all that made me shiver.

We took the rest of the day to settle in, and that evening the boys presented us with a firepit. We were having a cookout, involving not just the BBQ stuff we brought with us, but also fresh venison steaks. I couldn't stomach eating the deer. I don't even know if it's because of the 'wrongness' with it, or if it was just the memory of it being wrapped around Curtis' truck. I did have a few drinks, though, and we were all getting nicely into the groove when we heard it - another party, somewhere off in the distance.

Like I said, this is private land. Acres and acres of it. Anyone out here who isn't us is trespassing. Cassie was pissed off, but Kit was already pretty drunk and he kicked right off. Suddenly he's got a rifle and we're all marching out into the woods towards this group of other people, with me just stumbling along in the back, clutching Jim's hand and praying my first visit to America doesn't end with me burying a dozen bodies in the fucking woods.

Luckily (sort of) we never found the people making the noise. It seemed to fade in and out, not like it was being blown on the wind, more like someone turning the volume knob on a radio or something. Eventually Jay pointed out that all we were doing was getting ourselves lost in the woods, especially since by this point it was fully dark. We all agreed, and as we did the sounds stopped, just like that, as if someone had finally switched the radio off altogether.

We were all in a rough circle at this point, and I'd ended up alone, slightly away from the others. I was sighing in relief at not having to cover for a multiple homicide when I heard branches crackling in the trees behind me. It sounded huge, but before I could turn around it was right there, right behind me, so close I could feel its breath on my neck, so close if I reached out backwards I could touch it. I tried to call the others, but the smell of musty fur and carrion was so strong it came out as more of a retch instead.

That still got their attention. They turned to me, and despite the terror on their faces nobody screamed. It's funny, how it's possible to be so scared you just turn into a useless statue. My head was screaming for me to run, but my body had apparently decided to play that shit like I was facing a t-rex.

"What is it?" I managed to gasp eventually. No one answered at first. I don't think they could. Finally, though, Cassie managed to grit out three words.

"Emily... don't look."

Seriously.

Whatever it was, it reacted to my speaking. I felt movement behind me, and suddenly that hot, stinking breath was right by my ear. At the same time I felt a gentle pressure on my shoulder, as if it was resting a paw, or chin, there. I expected it to bite me at any second. What I didn't expect was for it to start whispering to me.

I don't remember anything it said. I think my brain just stopped functioning at that point, like it couldn't handle anything else and had just given up and gone to sleep. I felt drugged, useless. I just stood there and let the whispering wash over me, like I'd already given up.

I don't know what would have happened next without Kit. The sludgy daze I'd been in was blown apart by the loudest sound I'd ever heard, which I later realised was Kit shooting into the air. The whispering stopped, the hot breath receded, and suddenly everyone was screaming for me to run - run, and whatever else you do, don't look back.

I didn't look back. I did, however, look up. That got me moving. It had antlers. Fucking antlers. I couldn't make out any features through the thick hair all over it, except its eyes. They were glowing, milky-white, like twin moons hanging over me. And teeth. I definitely saw teeth.

They all followed me. Kit and some of the other guys eventually caught up to me, then passed me. Behind me I heard the sound of something huge and heavy crashing through the trees, and then the shrieking of one of the twins. She'd tripped on a branch and twisted her ankle, because apparently she decided now was the time to take a leaf out of the horror-movie handbook. Her sister was screaming after us, saying we had to stay and help. Then, distantly, they both started howling, howling like people being torn apart.

The rest of us made it safely into the house, locking the door behind us. Do I feel bad about leaving the twins? I'd love to tell you yes, but no, I didn't, not even a bit. It's not like I twisted her leg, is it? It's not like they'd have come back for me or Jim. So why should I feel bad about it? Shut up.

It all turned out to be a moot point, anyway. We kept people on guard for the rest of the night, watching the edge of the woods. Obviously they do get reception out here, but it's seriously not reliable. Plus I dropped my phone out there somewhere. Still, at 3am, Craig wakes us all up. The twins are outside, he says.

No one believed him at first, not after the screaming, but no, there they were, waiting at the door. They were smiling, and looked exactly as they did earlier in the evening.

Now, they said the thing we saw was a costume, worn by some Mikey guy who apparently couldn't make it up this week. He could, however, make it up for one night to scare the shit out of us, apparently, before heading back to civilisation without speaking to anyone else.

Everyone accepted this without question and headed to bed, but it was light before I could get to sleep. Am I nuts, or what? The idea of one guy bringing himself up here, luring us into the woods, pulling that shit and then vanishing back to society in time for work just doesn't sit right with me. Then again, what's the alternative? Seriously, what? Evil ghost deer? Hulked-out Bambi's dad? Elementary, my deer Watson?

I wanted to go home this morning, once I'd actually grabbed a few hours of sleep, but Cassie and Jim managed to talk me out of it. It doesn't help that the twins are supremely pissed off that we left then to 'die' last night. Oh, they say they're not, but that doesn't stop them staring at people when they're not looking. I've caught them looking at me more than once today, turned around to see those totally blank expressions, suddenly twisting into beaming, fake smiles before they turn and walk away. If they're pissed off, I'd rather them just say so.

Worse, I'm pretty sure they've got something similar cooked up for tonight. Jim keeps saying he can't hear anything, but while I've been writing this out (typing away on the laptop he told me not to bring, hoping to catch the barest smidgen of reception) I swear I've started hearing people calling my name out in the trees, just beyond the boundary ring.

So I suppose my question for you, my fellow Reddittors, is this - should I stay or should I go?