#And I can’t tell if that’s the mystery we’re gonna find out or if I totally missed it or what | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mangoshorthand · 2 months ago

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Inspired by this post. When your daughter is eight years old, Five organises a family trip to County Clare, Ireland. His reasons why are completely transparent.

The Changeling | Five Hargreeves/Reader, Five Hargreeves & 8 y/o daughter Words: 7.7k

GIF by: @seance

It was Aoife’s first flight, and it was only through Five’s gentle persuading that you were convinced that it would be safe. At eight, he said, she was more than old enough to listen and control herself.

Still, just before you boarded, you knelt down in front of her and took her by the elbows.

“Aoife, listen to me, honey.”

She blinked at you with Five’s eyes. She looked the picture of innocence, and if you didn’t know better, you might have been taken in.

“You cannot blink on this flight. You can’t blink on this trip at all unless it’s just me and Daddy in the room, but you especially can’t blink on the plane, okay?”

“Okay Mommy,” she said, sulkily.

“Seriously,” you said, giving her a gentle shake, “If you misjudge it by just a tiny amount, you could end up outside the plane. You could fall and die.”

Aoife looked up at Five for backup but didn’t find it. He put a hand on her shoulder with a stern look that was uncharacteristic when aimed at her.

“Your mother’s right, cara. This is life and death. And even if you try it and don’t die, we’re going to go straight back home again as soon as we land. There will be no trip at all. You hear me?”

“I didn’t even do anything yet!” she said, indignantly.

“Yes, and I’m sure you won’t because you’re my good, sensible girl,” you said, hoping she’d live up to the label.

“I’m just making sure you understand what’s at stake here, kid.” Five said, “ Non sto scherzando . Now, repeat it back: tell me what’s gonna happen if you blink.”

“I’ll die,” she said, with petulant impatience.

“And if you blink but don’t die?”

“No trip,” she repeated.

“Correct,” Five said, “we won’t even leave the airport. We’ll turn right around and get on the next flight home.”

“I know you’ll be a good girl,” you said, kissing her on the nose, “you always are, aren’t you?”

You kissed once, twice and three times until her pout was replaced with a smile.

As it happened, once the initial excitement of being airborne had worn off, Aoife fell asleep almost immediately, the early morning catching up with her. She was leaning against you, chest rising and falling slowly, and would remain so for all but the last hour of the flight.

Five was also quiet, staring out of the window at clouds in the odd light of changing time zones.

Ever since suggesting the trip, he’d been a closed book. He was still himself - still loving, and still every inch the husband and father you knew - but he was more insular, more like he was before you got married; keeping the internal workings of his mind under wraps.

With Aoife against you, you couldn’t reach out to offer him any physical affection, so instead, you spoke to him over her head.

“You okay, sweet guy?”

He looked over at you and plastered on a smile that didn’t hide his impatience with the question.

“Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”

You pulled a face at him, one that told him you weren’t an idiot. He didn’t exactly need to tell you for you to guess what this trip was really about.

Five couldn’t help but feel slightly annoyed by your knowing look. It was galling to know he no longer held any mysteries for you. He leaned his head against the plane’s wall and closed his eyes.

It wasn’t that he was shutting you out, it was more from a strong sense that this was something he had to do alone.

It came up in therapy a couple of times. Maybe it was his age, or maybe it was being a father, but he found himself coming back to this idea of history. Aoife’s family tree on his side was more of a hedge: extremely wide but only one generation tall. He wanted to give her an anchoring in this world beyond a strange experiment by a billionaire that resulted in her mentally unstable father.

On his mentioning these feelings, Dr Daley asked him whether it was possible he was projecting, but Five dismissed this.

To him, being Irish by birth didn’t mean much. It might explain his liking for Guinness, but that was about it. And who didn’t like Guinness?

No. If he’d grown up in Ireland, he’d be a completely different person, as alien to him now as anyone else. For better or worse, Five was the sum total of his experiences. If Reginald was his father along with the harsh life he’d offered, then the apocalypse and all its horrors may as well be his mother.

The woman who’d birthed him sold him for a couple of grand. He couldn’t imagine it as he glimpsed Aoife out of the corner of his eye. The first time he held his newborn daughter was transformative. He’d felt his entire world crash down and reform around her. He knew she was his on an animal level that left reason entirely behind. His very skin cried out for her.

And yet…childbirth was a bloody, agonizing mess. He’d watched you go through it, and it wasn’t exactly trauma free, even after months of mental preparation.The idea of it happening, all in the space of a few minutes, to women who had no mental preparation was nothing short of horrifying. Now he thought about it, it was amazing that so many of the other October 1st children seemed to have been kept.

But still, when he looked at Aoife, he couldn’t help but wonder.

He looked up again, and caught your too-understanding eyes. This time, he smiled at you, irritation giving way to affection. Over ten years you’d grown to know him better than he knew himself. You’d been there for every step as he tried to rebuild his mental health, every tough therapy session, every new drug, and every addition to his laundry list of diagnoses.

You’d known what this was about as soon as he mentioned the trip.

“Can you get the week commencing the 12th October off work?” he’d said, over his cereal one morning, around six months ago.

“I think so,” you said, surprised, “why?”

“We’re going to Ireland.”

“What?” you said, and then, “What about school?”

“They’ll be fine. Call it an educational trip,” he said, “We’ll have Aoife do a project or something.”

“What brought this on?”

He shrugged, and the way he looked down at a newspaper on the table gave you the distinct impression he was trying to avoid your eye.

“I’ve booked seven nights in County Clare, staying in this huge castle. Dates back to the 17th Century. Aoife’s gonna lose her mind.”

You studied him for a few moments as he sipped his coffee, eyes stock-still on the newspaper, not really reading it.

“Weren’t you born in County Clare?” you asked, gently.

“Mmhm,” he replied, blandly, turning a page.

You waited, and when he didn’t elaborate, you just stuck out a hand and laid it on his forearm. *** When you arrived at Shannon airport, it was raining. It rained like a veil of mist, pin-pricking your faces in a moist cloud of chill wind. It was mid morning, though the foggy skies made it indistinguishable from any other time of day. It made Five glad of his coat, and he paused outside the terminal to zip it to his chin.

Aoife rubbed her eyes and looked around at the gray, concrete parking lot

“Where are we going?” she asked, in sleepy confusion.

“Not far,” you said, squeezing her hand as Five wheeled your luggage.

The rented Skoda estate was comfortable enough, although not what Five would prefer to be driving. Still, it did the job. As you helped Aoife strap into a booster seat, he had to concede that, on unfamiliar roads, it was more important that style give way to safety.

The thought made him smile to himself as he loaded the luggage into its roomy, sensible trunk. Sometimes it still seemed odd to find himself having such daddish thoughts. It was odd, but good too.

The environs of the airport faded into the misty rain behind you, and you very soon found yourselves in country that more naturally sprang to mind when you imagined Ireland.

The landscape was mostly flat and green, damp fields stretching out to the horizon on every side. Short but lush trees and hedges lined the dual carriageway, occasionally leading to taller trees and more advanced woodland, but it mostly served to insulate the surrounding farmland from the road.

“Do you think there are fairies in those woods?” you asked Five, conversationally, eyeing Aoife out of the corner of your eye.

“Hm,” Five said, playing along, “It’s possible.”

“Fairies?” Aoife said, her interest piqued as you intended.

“That’s right,” he said, “there are lots of stories of fairies in Ireland.”

“Will we see some?”

“Probably not,” you smiled, “but it’s fun to pretend.”

As you got deeper into the countryside, stone walls ran along the roadside. Every few miles or so, the fields gave way to the occasional, squat house; all rendered in white with gray slate roofs. They were small, asymmetrical; clearly built for function over form. Once or twice a chimney smoked, bringing with it the smell of peat smoke on the air.

As you traveled, the sun started to cut through the haze, although the rain didn’t let up, coming down in those same misty clouds. The trees began to thicken, until the land on one side of the road was completely obscured with woodland. At last, you came to a grand iron gate.

“We’re here.”

Aoife shuffled excitedly in the booster, trying to peek out from behind the passenger seat to see ahead.

You passed a gatehouse, and soon the thick trees gave way to a simple avenue, leading you up a drive surrounded by lush lawns, upon which small brown rabbits were dotted, those nearest the drive lolloping away from the skoda as it crunched along the gravel.

Aoife was predictably excited by these, and it took some stern words from you to stop her removing her seatbelt and blinking from the car to chase them.

But as you rounded a corner and Ballycarnane castle became visible across the small lake surrounding it on two sides, the rabbits were completely forgotten.

“Look!” she said, in high-pitched awe, “It’s a castle!”

“So it is,” Five said, as if only just noticing it.

It was huge, robust, and square in formation, built with solid gray stone with battlements topping sturdy towers on rising ground. Fountains, trimmed hedges and perfectly mower-lined lawns decorated its immediate environs. At the top of the tallest tower, an Irish flag flew.

“Is there a princess in there?” Aoife asked, breathlessly, kicking the back of your seat in her glee.

“Ci sarà presto, cara.” Five said, quietly, a smile playing about his face.

“Are we staying near here? Can we go visit? Please?”

You looked at Five. He was loving this, you knew, as much as he tried to hide his self-satisfied smile. He gave you the nod to deliver the final bombshell. He was always sweet that way: his daughter’s glee was all the reward he needed. He didn’t need to take the credit too.

“We’re staying right here.” you said.

“IN THE CASTLE?”

“That’s right,” you chuckled.

Aoife exploded, letting out a series of shrill shrieks that made both you and her father wince.

“Ouch,” you said, at the redoubled kicks to the back of your seat.

“ WE’RE STAYING IN A CASTLE!”

“Esatto, principessa,” Five replied, pulling into one of the parking spots, “and it’s a very fancy place, so best behavior, okay? You gotta act just like a real princess.”

“CAN I WEAR A PRINCESS DRESS?”

“We’ll see,” you said, “now calm down , sweetie.” *** The next couple of days passed in a blur of sight-seeing, fairy-hunting and princess games. You and Five made excellent ladies in waiting, or else the king and queen, knights, or whatever else Aoife decreed.

Always unable to resist giving his daughter anything she asked for, Five bought not one, but two princess dresses from the ridiculously overpriced boutique attached to the hotel. He also returned with a beautiful, pure silk dressing gown for you, although you suspected this was partly to buy you off after spoiling Aoife.

It was mid-afternoon on Wednesday, you and Five stood on the lawn watching as Aoife tripped over her grass-stained skirts as she climbed a tree stump just for the joy of jumping off.

“I think I’m going to walk into town,” he said, casually.

You looked at him.

“Into town?”

“Yes.”

He caught your eye, and his expression was unreadable enough to be perfectly legible to you.

He stood a little apart from you, hands in the pockets of his corduroy trousers. He looked unlike himself, standing there in sturdy walking boots and a thick, oversized cable knit sweater over a flannel shirt. His hair played around his face in the slight breeze, masking and then revealing his face.

He looked into your eyes, and you saw the grim determination there.

“Do you want us to come with you?” you asked.

“No,” he said, calmly, “you enjoy yourselves here. I’ll be back before sundown.”

“Are you sure?” you asked, approaching him and putting a hand on his upper arm.

“Yes darling,” he said, calmly.

You understood. Five’s tendency to try and face things alone was a habit born of the apocalypse. He was insular; self reliant to an unhealthy degree, but you suspected that this wasn’t like this.

This was no impending apocalypse, this was something intensely personal. Processing it himself was no bad thing. This was about him, and part of you knew that he was only standing here at all because he had the security of knowing you’d be there, whenever he was ready to let you in; be it tonight, tomorrow, or months from now.

“Okay,” you said with a reassuring smile. *** It was a four mile walk from the castle itself into Ballycarnane. He walked almost as the crow flew, across fields; down farm lanes and public footpaths; through wooden gates that creaked with age. The rain spat occasionally, and even the hood of his coat couldn’t keep it from blowing into his eyes.

As he walked, he couldn’t let his mind drift: it was caught in the features of the landscape, keeping him present in every step. He was struck by the wilderness of it all, even as its habitation was constantly declared by the presence of tarmac and the occasional lonely dwelling.

He tramped over damp gorse and heather, taking detours whenever the ground became too marshy to walk on. His walking boots were good quality and supportive, but that didn’t mean he needed to brave the outskirts of a bog when he could retreat to serpentine, single track roads.

He’d thought the land was relatively flat when he arrived yesterday, but no sooner had the marshy areas fallen behind him as he walked into rugged, rocky countryside, dotted with pine woods.

This might have been his home, he mused. He might have been familiar with this environment, these roads and the ever-present stone walls, as sturdy as they appeared ramshackle. How might he have spent his childhood? This rain on his face, these clouds above him. Green as far as the eye could see.

Gradually, more and more signs of habitation sprung up around him: the roads became fractionally wider, the houses more varied and frequent as he approached the outskirts of the town. Now he was on streets, the hedges neatly kept, and there were road markings too, single tracks leading onto dual carriageways.

At last, he passed a sign welcoming him to the town proper, and he began to pass others bustling around him, speed humps, housing estates, white vans and churches. A woman with a stroller thanked him quietly as he stood aside off the sidewalk to let her pass.

He passed a convenience store, an undertakers, a shop selling fancy cheese and wine, and then he saw it: across from a pub was a butcher’s shop.

Though many of the shops and houses on Ballycarnane’s main street were painted in bright colors, and many other buildings were of the dull concrete variety he’d grown used to back home, the default building style in this area seemed to be those single story, white rendered buildings with those gray roof tiles. His mother’s butcher’s shop was one of these, with a large window displaying wares.

Below the building’s blue gables, a mural on the outside of the building depicted a cow, sheep and pig. To Five’s mind, they looked inappropriately happy to be depicted, given the context. Above them, in hand-painted italics read: ‘ Jones Family Butchers’, beneath them, ‘ Est.1979’.

He knew her name was Efa Jones, but seeing the name was odd. He was here. *** “Okay, princess Aofie,” you called, as Five’s figure retreated down the gravel drive, “we’re going to get started on your school project.”

“But Mooommy,” she said, gesturing to the tree stump as if there were depths to its joys she had as yet not discovered.

“What if we did it about the fairies of Ballycarnane?”

Aoife still looked skeptical.

“You remember John from this morning?”

Aoife nodded. She had exchanged a hearty conversation about the rabbits and deer that roamed the grounds with the old man working as the hotel’s senior concierge.

“Well, he told me there’s a fairy fort nearby. You want to go?”

“Yeah!” she said, enthusiastically, jumping from the tree stump one final time, bounding towards you taking your hand.

“And,” you continued, setting off, “he said once we’d been to go and find him, and he'd tell us a story all about it. If you write his story down and draw some pictures, that can be your project to show Mx Leyton.”

*** Five finished his third Guinness.

He’d been nursing the beers for over two hours, looking out of grimy windows into the butcher’s shop across the way. He could see movement within, but no detail. Only two or three customers had been in and out in all the time he watched.

The pub was a spit and sawdust kind of place. The Weaver’s Inn had a cheap paneling on the walls, mismatched dark wood chairs and a carpet that looked like it hadn’t been changed since before the butcher’s shop was established.

On a Wednesday daytime in October, there had been only one other patron when he arrived, an old man who looked at him with slight suspicion as he entered, but now, as five o’clock drew nearer, people began to trickle in, and there were over five tables occupied.

He looked into the bottom of his glass. It was now or never.

He recognised her from the newspaper clipping he found as soon as he walked into the store. She must have been pushing seventy, only five or six years younger than himself.

Her back was bent into a painful curve over her butcher’s block, though she scrubbed at the salted wood with her metal-bristled brush with more than enough vigor. As his entrance caused a bell above the door to give a little trill, she looked up.

Her wrinkled face was dominated by a pair of thick-rimmed glasses, white hair scraped back beneath a hairnet. Her brown eyes were slightly misty with the beginnings of cataracts.

“It’s just the pre-cut now,” she said, nodding towards the block, “you’ve left it late.”

“No problem,” Five said, watching her lay down her brush with the air of one not keen to be interrupted.

He approached the counter slowly, forcing himself to look down through the glass at the meat on display.

“What’ll you have?”

She exuded a stern, no nonsense attitude. Customer service might be in her job, but not in her nature, it seemed.

“Uh,” Five said, uncharacteristically unsure, “steak,” he said, suddenly.

“What type and how much” she prompted, approaching the counter.

“Uh-” he said again.

“Tourist, are you?” she said, shrewdly.

All the Irish accents he’d heard until now were lilting, but hers lilted differently.

“Is it that obvious?” Five smiled, looking back down at the counter.

“American?” she asked, as if it were an accusation.

“Yup.”

“Staying at the castle, I’ll bet.”

“Correct.”

“Sure. You’ve got that silver-spoon look about you.”

Five let out something halfway between a chuckle and a scoff.

“Well, you might say I landed on my feet.”

“You telling me they let you cook steak in those fancy bedrooms?” she asked, skeptically.

Five shifted uncomfortably. She was inconveniently shrewd.

He guessed he knew where he got it from.

“We’re self-catering,” he lied, and then, as it came into his thoughts, “I’d say you’re not local yourself, Efa.”

“How d’you know my name?” she asked, suspiciously.

Shit.

“The bartender at the Weavers Inn,” he said, with a tight smile - she had him on his toes in the way few people could manage - “I told him I wanted a good steak and he said you were the lady to talk to.”

She rolled her eyes.

“That’s as nice as Liam Moore’s been about me in thirty years,” she muttered “So my beef’s good enough for out-of-towners but not good enough supply his dive of a pub?”

But then, in answer to his question:

“You’ve got a good ear. I was born in Caerphilly.”

“Wales?” he asked, unable to hide his surprise.

“Wales indeed,” she said briskly, “Now, I’ve got a nice rib-eye, fillet’s only thirty-five euro per kilogram today, and this sirloin’s nicely marbled. What will you have?”

Five didn’t process this, “You’re Welsh?”

“Half.” she said, slightly perturbed, “Mam was Irish, Dad was Welsh. We came here when I was ten.”

It all clicked into place.

“Efa’s a Welsh name,” he said, coming to the conclusion out loud, “That’s why you’re not Aoife.”

“That’s true,” she said, “I was named for my father’s mother.”

She watched him curiously as he cast his eyes back down to the counter.

“My daughter’s name is Aoife.” he said, in an attempt at off-handedness.

There was silence then, and Five lowered his eyes.

“And what’s your name?” she asked.

He swallowed. ***

You warmed yourself in an armchair by the fire, while Aoife’s cheeks were still pinched red from the cold outside.

John sat beside her on one of the couches in the hotel foyer, flanked by two suits of armor. He was smart in his gray waistcoat, a gold name badge catching the light at his lapel. His white shirtsleeves were immaculate, his thin, white hair combed over his bald head. His bright blue eyes seemed permanently crinkled into a smile.

“Before we begin, I wonder if I can arrange a hot drink for you both? Will you have a cup of tea, coffee? Hot chocolate for the little one?”

“Can I have marshmallows?” Aoife asked you eagerly.

“She has to have marshmallows, Mammy,” said John, twinkling at you.

“Of course,” you said, “And I’d love a coffee, thanks.”

“A baileys coffee?”

“I shouldn’t,” you said, though very willing to be persuaded.

“You’re on your holidays,” John said, waving aside your diffidence. He caught the eye of one of the junior concierges, motioned him over and made the order.

“Now,” he said, resettling himself, “this is rather a recent fairy story,” John said, “One my mother said happened when I was only a lad, going on for fifty years ago, I’d say.”

You looked at Aoife. Predictably, she looked astonished. To her, fifty years previously may as well be prehistory.

“This story’s not for the faint of heart,” John continued, “Can you handle a spooky story, little one?”

Aoife nodded, wide eyed, her pen poised ready to take notes over a freshly bought notebook. You looked quickly over at him with a small, doubtful grimace.

He smiled and nodded back at you, taking the hint.

“Just be assured that this is only a story, now,” he said to her, “It’s not real, it’s just something to tell one another for a bit of fun, alright? I was sixteen when my Mam told me this, and she acted like it had only just happened. It was just to scare me out of walking home late at night. You understand?”

“Yeah,” she said, eager for him to begin.

“The fairies you might have heard about before are not like these fairies. Our fairies are not gentle or very kind. They don’t grant wishes and they’re not to be tangled with.”

Slowly, Aoife wrote down a note in her large, uneven cursive.

“Fairy forts like the one you visited today are supposed to be where creatures from the fairy realm gather. Did you see any there today?”

Aoife shook her head.

“I thought not,” he said, “they’re supposed to gather at night. And that’s when the story starts. Mam said there was an old man walking home to Ballycarnane and he walked too close to that fairy fort.”

John paused as Aoife laboriously copied down what she’d heard, watching her write and offering the odd prompt to aid her memory. The drinks arrived in this interval, and you sipped your coffee gratefully as you watched them.

“Now this fella wasn’t local, you see,” John continued, “he lived nearby but he wasn’t born around here, so he didn’t know you needed to give them a wide berth. And then the poor fool was confronted by a banshee, wailing.”

“What’s a bant-shee?” Aoife asked.

“A banshee ,” he said, “a terrible fairy. Always a bad omen. They look like women with long hair, and they appear to people, screaming and crying. The story goes that if you see or hear a banshee, it means someone you love’s going to die.”

Aoife scribbled this down, mouth hanging open slightly.

“Remember it’s not real though,” he added, reassuringly, adding a little cold milk to cool her hot chocolate for her, “that’s just what they say.”

“What did the man do?” Aoife asked, too transfixed to take the drink from him when he offered.

“Well, he knew what a banshee was, alright, and he knew what it meant. So he tried to beg her not to take his wife or daughter, only it was too late. The banshee wailed, ‘oh no, you’ve disturbed us, so now you’ll pay the price: either you choose a death, or you’ll give the fairies a newborn child of your blood before the sun goes down tomorrow’. ”

He paused to allow Aoife to write down this last, and then pushed her drink towards her.

“Drink up, pet.”

Aoife took the hot chocolate from him and took a gulp, leaving foamy residue around her mouth, still watching John with wonder in her eyes. The cup wobbled in its saucer, and you leaned forward to help her put it back on the coffee table, lest her princess dress get covered in even more dirt.

“Then what happened?” she asked.

“Well, this old man and his wife were too old to have any more children, and their only daughter was grown, and she certainly wasn’t going to have a newborn baby so soon, so he thought he had a chance of beating that banshee.”

You could tell even from several feet away that Aoife’s writing was becoming more and more illegible in her haste to hear the rest of the story. You sensed that some translation and aiding of her memory might come in useful when she came to write up the project.

“So the old man agreed. He said, ‘you can have a newborn of my blood before the sun sets tomorrow,’ thinking he could cheat the fairies out of their due. And what do you think happened next?”

Aoife shook her head, unknowing.

“Well, that man fell into an enchanted sleep, and woke up by the fairy fort at mid-afternoon the next day. No sooner than he woke up did he hurry home to check on his wife and daughter.”

Aoife wasn’t even writing notes anymore, hanging on John’s every word.

“And he found a terrible scene.” John said, ruefully, “While he slept, his daughter had given birth to a changeling, though she certainly hadn’t been pregnant the day before.”

You sat up.

“What’s a changeling?” Aofie asked.

“A baby the fairies leave when they steal a human one. They’re supposed to be cursed children, sometimes they’re evil and naughty, and sometimes they have strange powers.”

You leaned forward and opened your mouth to speak, but John spoke before you could ask him anything.

“And then, the old man realized what he’d done: when there was no newborn to take, the fairies took away his daughter’s future firstborn instead, forcing her to birth the changeling in its place.”

“What happened?” you asked.

John looked over at you, surprised by the sudden seriousness in your tone.

“Well, the old man and his wife died without any grandchildren. Their daughter never married, and their line died out.”

“What happened to the changeling?” you asked.

“Nobody knows,” John said, returning his gaze to Aoife with a smile and mysterious tone. ***

“I’m Five.”

There was a long silence. He chewed his lips as he looked down at the meat, not willing or able to meet her eyes.

At last, just to say something that might break the tension, he motioned to a pile of beef.

“That brisket looks good.”

She didn’t answer immediately, but when she did, her no-nonsense voice was firmly back in place.

“It’s the best in the county,” she said briskly, “you can’t beat Irish beef and won’t find a nicer cut, especially when it’s slow cooked.”

“Sounds good,” he said, awkwardly.

“Will you have a piece of that instead of steak?”

“Sure,” Five said, relieved to have the decision made for him.

“To serve how many?”

“Just three,” he said, watching her hands as they reached into the display of meat.

They were just like his. The same long, bony fingers. The same bones and tendons standing out on the back of her hands as her fingers flexed.

“This piece will do you,” she said, decisively.

Five risked a look up at her, and her brown eyes met his green.

He must have got his eyes from one of his grandparents, he thought, and then Efa looked away from him quickly.

“I have a secret recipe for brisket” she said, as she took the beef to the scale and weighed it, “Falls apart in the mouth. It was my mother’s, and I only got it out of her on her deathbed, she prized it so much.”

Five couldn’t resist this opening. He had to know:

“Will you pass it down to your kids?”

She paused for a mere fraction of a second and then she turned to ready brown paper in which to wrap the meat.

“I don’t have children,” she said, firmly, her back still to him, “I was never the marrying or the mothering type.”

As she folded the first layer around the brisket, Five blinked rather rapidly. There was a tight fist somewhere in his abdomen.

When he mastered himself, he spoke again.

“I understand.”

She nodded, still facing away from him, wrapping the brisket carefully in brown paper, still facing away from him at a plastic table.

“Still,” she said, quietly, “it seems a crying shame that nobody should taste my Mam’s brisket after I’m gone.“

She stuck a label to the wrapped beef, holding the paper in place. Then, from behind her ear, she pulled a stubby pencil, knife-sharpened into a rough, angular shape.

She tore another small portion of brown paper and began to write with the sort of fevered energy Five himself used to write equations on the concrete walls of the Argyle public library.

“Now, this is to serve six or so, but you can scale as you like.”

Her pencil clicked smartly along the paper.

“You start with a rub. Dark brown sugar, onion powder, mustard powder, garlic powder, cayenne pepper and salt. Mam would usually leave it there, but I’ve had success with paprika too.”

She looked up at him, pausing in her writing, eyebrows raised imperiously.

“Only you make sure it’s smoked paprika, alright?”

“Of course,” he said, slightly taken aback at her forcefulness.

“Good,” she said, “And the key is to leave it coated in the rub for at least twelve hours in the fridge. Then, when you cook, a lot of recipes would have you use beef stock, but for my Mam’s recipe, it’s beer or nothing: a nice ale. None of that crap excuse for lager you lot try to pass off as beer.”

“Got it,” Five said, catching her flow, “No American beer. Would Guinness work?”

Efa pulled a face.

“You can try it, I suppose,”

She fell silent as she jotted down the final instructions.

Five watched her as she worked, jaw set, and eyes intense. She finished the recipe with a flourish, folded the paper and handed it to him smartly across the counter.

“Thank you,” he said.

“And that’ll be thirteen euro forty-five.”

He reached into his pants pocket and handed her the money as she placed the parcel of meat in a paper bag and handed it over. As she searched in the cash register for the change, he watched her lined face, the rim of her glasses obscuring her eyes.

When she put the coins in his hands, her cold fingers brushed his.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Thank you,” he repeated.

He looked at her, trying to do…he knew not what. He only knew that if he was going to drink her in, now was his opportunity to do so.

“Goodbye,” he said and, with it, there was finality. He wouldn’t come back here. This was the first and last time he’d see her.

His mother.

“Goodbye Five,” she replied, and her lips twitched into the first smile she’d given him.

It was small, sad, and spoke no love, but it spoke good will just as clearly. *** Five arrived back at the hotel just before seven. You were sitting on the four poster bed in your new robe, reading a book. Aoife was already asleep in the suite’s adjoining room, the hangings of her own bed drawn around it.

“Hi,” you said, as he entered.

“Hey,” he replied, as he closed the door behind him.

His boots were muddy, his hair damp and windswept.

“I hope you don’t mind, I already got Aoife dinner. She’s tuckered out. Long day.”

“Me too,” he said, heavily.

He turned back to the door and the coat hook on its back. He made as if to take off his coat and hang it with the rest. But instead, he sagged and leaned against the door, his forehead against Aoife’s coat.

You sighed sadly, placed down your book and crossed the room towards him.

“Come here, sweet guy,” you murmured.

You wrapped your arms around him from behind and laid your head against his, occasionally planting kisses at his hairline. Five let out a sigh of his own at this, and you felt him relax into you slightly.

“How about I run you a bath? I’ll order us room service and a bottle of wine.”

“That sounds nice,” Five said, voice muffled against Aoife’s bright blue raincoat.

You helped him off with his own coat - oddly heavy, you noticed - and put down on the bed.

“I’ll go run the bath. You get those clothes off okay?”

“Thanks dearest.”

When you returned from the bathroom, where a piping hot bubble bath was already running into the claw-foot tub, Five had stripped to his underwear, sorting his laundry.

“Will you order the pinot noir?” he asked.

“Still don’t trust me to choose wine?” you asked, amused, returning to his coat, “not even after ten years?”

“Never,” he said, smiling.

“Why do you have almost two pounds of meat in your pocket?” you asked, having fished out the brown paper bag emblazoned with: Jones Family Butchers, Est.1979.

“Long fucking story,” he mumbled, “just put it in the trash. I don’t know why I bought it.”

“And what’s this?” you asked, finding the piece of folded paper.

“Nothing,” he said, simply, removing his underwear and putting them in with the dirty clothes, “can you just put it with our passports?.”

“Sure.”

“Thanks.”

And with that, he disappeared into the bathroom.

Ignoring his request to put in the trash, you put the meat in the fridge that contained the extortionately-priced minibar, thinking you’d deal with it in the morning.

You opened the folded piece of paper as you went to hang his coat. At first, you thought the handwriting that recorded the recipe was his: there were the same bold lines, the same frenetic energy in the triple underlining of the word ‘smoked’ in ‘smoked paprika’, but the more you looked, the more differences you saw. This wasn’t his handwriting.

You refolded it, opened the room’s safe and filed it along with your passports and boarding passes. *** The helpful voice on the other end of the phone informed you that dinner itself would arrive in around forty minutes, while the wine would be sent straight up. Just enough time for you to place Five’s pajamas on a radiator to warm before a knock at the door announced its arrival.

Bottle and glasses in hand, you joined Five in the bathroom, settling on the low bench beside the shower, fogged up with the heat coming off the bathwater.

Five’s eyes were closed, lying with his head against the rim of the tub, breathing the steamy, fragranced air deeply.

“Wine,” you announced.

“Mm,” he said, contentedly.

He opened his eyes, his submerged left hand surfacing to receive the large glass you’d poured him.

“Thanks beautiful,” he said, looking up at you, eyes lingering for a moment at the cleavage visible where your robe met at the chest.

You raised an ironic brow. Clearly he wasn’t totally cut up over this.

As he took his first sip, he let out a small moan.

“Good?” you asked, amused.

“Heavenly,” he muttered, closing his eyes again.

He might not be so distraught that he couldn’t appreciate a nice view of boob, but he still needed this. You scooched your bench closer so that you could run your fingers through his hair.

He hummed appreciatively as you petted him, and you sat that way for several minutes, watching him unwind and fall into gentle repose.

Who could give him up? With that smooth skin, that dimple on his cheek, his parted lips, his keen eyes, framed by lashes as thick as his soft hair.

Not you.

At last, when he had worked his way sufficiently down his glass, you topped him up and asked:

“So, how was it?”

“I’m not sure,” he said thoughtfully, “it turns out I’m a quarter Welsh.” *** The sun came out for the last couple of days of the trip. On your final full day there, you were taking a few hours in the hotel spa. Five, however, was to be found being chased around one of the lawns by his daughter, he laughing, she screeching in delight.

“Come back!” she said, in mock outrage, “you need to have YOUR SHOTS!”

He barked, back bent and arms out in front of him like forepaws.

“Never!” he yelled, deploying a perfectly executed commando roll to evade her.

Unfortunately for him he commando-rolled straight into a large rhododendron bush.

“IF YOU DON’T HAVE YOUR SHOTS YOU WILL GET SICK AND DIE, YOU BAD DOG.” yelled Aoife, holding a small stick clasped in her fist like it was a knife she was about to go full-psycho with.

“But I don’t want to!” Five whined, trying to disentangle himself as Aoife advanced upon him, “you’re a big meanie vet! Woof!”

“I’M A BIG NICE VET, ACTUALLY.” she said, as he wriggled away from her once more, “YOU’RE JUST A BIG BABY.”

“I’m a big baby who’s getting away!” Five grinned, looking back over his shoulder and sticking his tongue out at her as he darted away.

And then he tripped over a tree root and fell with a thud onto the soft grass. He flipped over, laughing, as Aoife approached.

“A-ha!” she said, triumphantly, taking advantage of his compromised to jump on top of him, stick raised.

“Oof!” he said, winded as she straddled his waist. He tried to grab her wrist, but it was too late: she managed to poke the stick into his upper arm.

“There.” she said, “Now what was all that fuss about, little dog?”

“Owwww,” Five cried, pouting and whining like the dog he was supposed to be.

“Pull yourself together!” Aoife said, affecting a clipped, professional voice, “Or you won’t get a candy.”

“I'm a dog, I'm not allowed candy! I want a treat!” Five replied, indignantly.

“WELL YOU HAVE TEN MORE SHOTS FIRST.”

“Surely this is unethical?” Five expostulated, his childish affect replaced by a more adult one as she held his arm down and ‘injected’ him (stabbed him repeatedly through his sweater).

“I am NOT un-effable.”

“Unethical,” Five corrected, rarely able to stop himself from taking advantage of any teachable moment, “it means morally wrong.”

“What does morally mean?” she said, with a small roll of her eyes.

“Ouch. It means how you behave. If you’re morally wrong then it means you’re behaving wrongly.”

“Then you’re being unethable!” she said, triumphantly, “because if you don’t get your shots then you’ll make other doggies sick too.”

“But do the ends justify the means?” Five mused, grinning.

“What?”

“Nothing. Thank you for my shots. I’m feeling much better, even if my immune system has eleven different attenuated pathogens to deal with.”

Daddy, you always talk funny,” she said, sounding equally amused and irritated with him.

He put his arms around her and pulled her down onto his chest.

“E’ vero, cara.”

He kissed where her hair parted at the crown of her head, feeling the deep damp of the soil beginning to soak into his sweater, but not caring at all.

“Usi sempre parole così grosse,” she replied, and he could hear you in her tone, the loving mockery in it.

He held her to him tighter and kissed her again, harder this time.

“I love you,” he said, feelingly.

“I love you too,” she replied, smiling down at him, her chubby cheeks dimpling as she did.

He felt his chest heave as he looked at her, and when he spoke again, his voice wasn’t quite his own.

“Being your Dad is my favorite thing about myself. And it's my favourite thing to do.”

And it was. He’d saved the world for the love of his adopted family, but perhaps he’d fought so fiercely because some part of him longed for this. Being a father and husband felt intrinsically, cosmically right, and made more sense than any mathematical logic.

Perhaps his daughter was always written there, deep in his DNA. He didn’t believe in fate, but still, some part of him knew he was supposed to be here, his daughter in his arms and days upon days of rain soaking from the earth, through his sweater and onto his skin.

He rocked her slightly, there on the grass, one hand in her hair and the other at her back; his baby girl, no matter how much she grew.

This was what he needed. You and her. You were both his reward and privilege to love.

Aoife considered his words, slightly taken aback by his sudden affection and not really understanding his intensity. After a moment, she spoke thoughtfully:

“Mine is my hair.”

“What?” he asked.

“My favorite thing about myself. I like it because it's curly but not too curly.”

Five laughed, and she laughed too as she was jostled by the movement of his stomach. She shuffled up his body, causing him to flinch away from a potential knee to the balls but, thankfully, she avoided that.

Instead, she crawled so that her head was level with his, grabbed him by each ear, and kissed his face. *** At dinner that last night, Aoife coloured the pictures she’d drawn for her project, tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth as she tried her best to color within the lines. The pencil crayons you chose for the job were tactical: unlikely to mark the pure white tablecloth.

The waiter brought your drinks. As he did so, he caught your eye and nodded conspiratorially towards the door, where Five couldn’t see him.

You looked over subtly. John stood in the doorway to the kitchen, motioning to you that the prepared surprise would be only two more minutes.

“Can we see the menu?” Five asked.

The waiter hesitated.

“I actually ordered for us all,” you said.

“Hm,” Five said, looking curiously up at you, “what are we having?”

“Thank you,” you said to the waiter, dismissing him for now.

You turned back to Five, and he was watching you with curious eyes. You caught his significantly, and spoke to him now with lines under your words.

“It seemed a shame to throw away that brisket you brought back the other day.”

He drew in a breath through his nose. You could tell he was unsure how to feel. You placed your hand over his.

“I copied the recipe too,” you said, softly, over the scratch scratch of Aoife’s pencil and the quiet chink of knives and forks on plates, “I thought you should try it before we go home.”

Five looked down at the tablecloth and put his other hand on top of yours. When he looked back up at you, his jaw gave a slight tremor.

“Thank you,” he said, quietly, “truly.”

You smiled, relieved.

“Are you happy?” you said, checking nevertheless.

Five gave one slow outward breath, and in those green eyes that low light sometimes disguised as blue, you saw an intensity of feeling that was hard to witness without bringing tears to your own eyes.

“I couldn’t be happier,” he said, so earnestly that Aoife looked up in surprise.

He wasn’t just talking about the brisket, you knew.

You smiled, losing the battle and swiping away a tear as you and Five squeezed each other's hands.

“Good,” you said, sniffling, “because I tipped the kitchen way too much money to make this happen.”

Taglist: @nevbrooke-555, @fiannee, @abeeabee6969, @chalametabingbong, @lolawassad, @icantpickanamefromonefandom, @kaybreezy3000

Megalist

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I take Five requests, I'm fairly versatile in what I write (fluff, smut, angst, psychological character study- I'll try it all) but I will consider them on a case by case basis. See request info + rules for request status and more.

Disclaimer: As an English person, I was conscious of the potential for unintended xenophobia as I wrote this, especially given the fast and loose attitude I've given to folklore. Unfortunately I wasn't able to get any Irish sensitivity readers before posting this though. I have a lot of Irish family and have visited many times in my life, but I'm aware I have blind spots just by nature of being English. If any Irish folk want to discuss anything that made them uncomfortable, my DMs are open :)

#the umbrella academy #the umbrella academy imagine #the umbrella academy five #umbrella academy number five #five hargreaves x you #number five imagine #five hargreeves imagine #number 5 imagine #i'm the daddy here #daddy!five #literally daddy!five #fluff #tua efa

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doctorbitchcrxft · 2 months ago

Text

The Magnificent Seven | Supernatural Series Rewrite | Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

Warnings: recovering from a sexual assault (please heed this warning), angst, canon violence, canon gore,

Word Count: 3382

A/N: SEASON THREEEEEEEEEEEE thank you guys so much for all the support i love you so much i give each of you a little kiss on the face :)))

Mobile Supernatural Series Rewrite Masterlist

Supernatural Series Rewrite Masterlist

Supernatural Series Rewrite Playlist

Dean hadn’t called you since you left. Honestly, you didn’t expect him to. However, there was a feeling clawing at you that you wanted him to. You wanted him to beg you to come back and tell you he missed you and loved you, too. Although, seventy-eight hours after leaving the Winchesters, you were unsure that phone call would ever come.

Over the previous three days, you’d scoured every library book on demonology you could get your hands on and prodded every community college professor that could possibly know any information helpful to you in breaking Dean’s deal. However, all you came up with were crossed eyes from staring at books for too long and several aging professors looking at you like you had three heads.

To your surprise, the phone on the center console next to you rang, the light from the small screen on the front of the flip phone illuminating a portion of the dark car. Hopeful, you picked it up.

‘Oh,’ you thought. ‘Just Sam.’

“Hello?” you said into the phone.

“(Y/N), hey, it’s good to hear your voice,” Sam replied.

“Good to hear yours, too,” you said, a little sadness in your tone. “Is— Is Dean around?”

“Nah. He’s, uh…” Sam trailed off, sighing.

“Polling the electorate?” you questioned, hoping Sam would understand your reference.

“Yeah,” Sam laughed sadly. “I’m sorry, (Y/N).”

You sighed, ready to change the subject. “It’s okay. What’s goin’ on? Why’d you call?”

“What, I couldn’t’ve just wanted to talk to you?”

“You would’ve called before if that was the case,” you replied a little flippantly.

“Fine, you got me,” Sam chuckled. “Was wondering if you’d found anything.”

“Besides an unreal level of frustration? No.”

“Yeah. Same here.”

You clicked on your turning signal and sighed. “Honestly, dude? I don’t think we’re gonna find the answer in any book.”

“You’re probably right,” Sam acknowledged. “Doesn’t hurt to look, though.”

“I have looked, Sam. And there’s nothing,” you responded, getting a little snippy with him. “I’m sorry. I’m just—” you quickly apologized.

“I get it. Me, too.”

“I’ll call you later, okay?”

“Okay,” Sam replied quietly. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

You understood the warning in his tone and knew he somehow figured out your next stop would be summoning every crossroads demon you could possibly find and hunting others down for answers. “Can’t make any promises, Sammy. Love you, bye.”

You snapped the phone shut and huffed. As badly as you wanted to continue your pursuit of these sons of bitches, you knew you’d be getting nowhere on the hour and a half of sleep you’d cumulatively been getting over the past five days.

***

The next morning, only feeling slightly refreshed from the three hours of sleep you’d gotten, you headed out into the early morning sun to find yourself a demon.

The previous evening, you’d found a bizarre story in the newspaper about a man who’d died under mysterious circumstances after picking up a hooker on the day after those demons were released from Hell in your fight with the yellow-eyed demon. There had also been a cicada swarm around the motel the man had died in; a traditional demonic omen.

The coroner’s report indicated the man had been tied to the bed and found without his genitals, blood soaking every inch of the room. They concluded the man had bled to death. What made the case more disturbing and interesting was the fact that there was a deep bruise around his neck in the shape of two small, delicate hands.

Curious, you headed to Lincoln, Nebraska to interview the wife of the man who’d passed.

“Hi, I’m with the FBI—” you flashed your fake badge at the woman as you spoke— “and I just have a few questions for you regarding your husband’s death?”

“I don’t understand,” she said, beginning to tear up. “I already answered these questions for the police.”

“Yes, ma’am, I just have to do a follow-up of my own. A cross-examination of sorts.”

She nodded and stepped back from the door, allowing you into her home. She gestured for you to sit on the couch across from the chair she settled into.

“So, what would you like to know?” she asked.

“What was your husband like?”

She laughed humorlessly. “Why is that important? I mean, I’m not even sure I really knew him. Married to that cheating bastard for fifteen years, and he does this to me.”

“What do you mean by ‘you’re not sure you knew him’?” you pressed.

“I mean,” she sniffed, “I just never would’ve thought he’d cheat on me. With a whore, no less.”

You cringed at the implication of sex workers being “whores” but kept your mouth shut anyway.

“I mean, in all the time we were together, I was the only girl he ever looked at,” she explained. “He never drank, never went out— hell, he felt guilty about watching porn! I just… I can’t understand why he’d do this to me.” Her sobs wracked her body, and she put her face in her hands.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Grishop. I just have one more question for you.”

She looked back up at you expectantly, still hiccuping from her cries.

“Did he have any enemies? Anyone who may possibly want to hurt him?”

She shook her head. “No. Before… all this… he really was the nicest man I ever knew.”

***

Following leaving the woman’s house, you decided to head out to lunch to gather your thoughts. In the midst of writing them all down in your journal and munching on a fry, a story on the news caught your attention.

“Second Victim of Possible Serial Killer Found,” read the headline at the bottom of the screen.

“Walter Morrisson, age forty-nine, was found dead in a Super 8 motel just off I-6 around eleven A.M. this morning. Authorities were called to the scene when the housekeeper found the body after assuming the man had already checked out."

‘Oh, fuck,’ you thought. You tuned the rest of the broadcast out as your mind raced; whatever this thing was, it was just getting started.

You left a twenty dollar bill on the table to cover your meal and tip and quickly left the diner. You sped down to the Super 8 to begin investigating.

Upon entering the lobby, you noticed a scraggly young man sitting behind the desk. The room was completely empty aside from him.

“Hi,” you grinned. “My name’s Christine McVie; I’m with the FBI.” You flashed your badge. “You mind letting me have a look at your security tapes?”

He nodded nervously, eyes flickering from your chest and back up to your face. He allowed you behind the desk to examine the security tapes from the previous night, and you clicked over to the camera just outside of the victim’s motel room. A gorgeous blonde woman escorted the man into the room, and she looked at the camera for just a split second. Had you not been paying close attention, you would’ve missed it completely: her eyes were black.

Immediately, you had the man working the front desk make you a copy of the tape and brought it back to your motel room. You then uploaded it to your laptop and began scanning FBI and police databases you’d hacked into to find the woman’s identity. After about thirty minutes, you found a match.

“Jennifer Lane, 28, Missing from Miami, Florida,” the information on your screen read.

‘Holy shit,’ you thought. ‘She went missing the same night I killed Yellow Eyes.’ Looking at the picture of Jennifer linked to the article you found confirmed the fact that this was your mystery demon. You felt awful for that poor girl trapped underneath and had no doubt she was going through a world of pain; a slave to her own mind.

“Housekeeping,” a sultry voice suddenly called from outside your door.

Unsettled, you drew your gun and pressed it to the door and looked through the peephole. You were met with the smiling face of the girl you had just been reading about, and the door abruptly slammed open and threw you back into your room. Two men with black eyes came into the room as well and grabbed under each of your arms before you even had a second to adjust.

You fought them as best you could which quickly proved futile.

“Don’t worry, angel,” the beautiful blonde cooed, “we’re not gonna hurt you.” She grinned wickedly and pulled your bottom lip down with her thumb. “Yet.”

The men holding you laughed as you continued to struggle, frantically flailing your limbs to shake them off.

“What’s the rush?” the demon asked you, roughly grabbing the sides of your face. “Y’know, you give a girl all kinds of nasty ideas.” Her lips ghosted over yours, and you suddenly found yourself unable to resist leaning forward slightly to kiss her. She kissed you deeply and furiously, causing you to stop fighting the two demons holding either side of you. You could feel them pulling your arms behind your back and tying them together, as well as your legs, but you could do nothing to fight off the woman before you.

When you’d been bound, the demons dragged you out to a car and threw you in the trunk of it. Trying not to panic, you tried to keep track of how long they were driving for and how many rights and lefts they’d been taking. However, after the second hour of driving, it was all becoming a bit much to keep track of.

Suddenly, the car came to a stop. You tried to prepare for whatever was ahead of you mentally and cried out when a demon roughly grabbed your hair. He hauled you out of the trunk and unceremoniously tossed you over his shoulder. You kicked and fought as best as you could, screaming, “Let me go!” You kicked the man’s stomach with all your might. “Let me go, you son of a bitch!”

“(Y/N)!” you heard an all-too familiar voice yell. Your stomach dropped at the sound of Dean’s voice, unwilling to face him after your confession and having not spoken for a week.

“Let go of me, you fucking asshole!” You wriggled even harder now and were suddenly aware that the man carrying you stopped moving. He roughly tore you off his shoulder and stood you on your shaky legs in front of the steps up to a house. You came face to face with Dean being held back from crossing the line of salt blocking the doorway by Bobby and Sam.

Afraid your voice would fail if you spoke, you said nothing but held Dean’s gaze.

“We come with a peace offering,” the gorgeous blonde who’d kidnapped you purred, dragging her nail harshly down your jawline and breaking the skin along it. You hissed in pain and could see Dean fight against Bobby out of the corner of your eye. “You give him back to us, and we’ll give her to you.”

“Nice try,” Sam replied. “How do we even know that’s (Y/N)? How do we know she’s not possessed?”

“You don’t." The woman gripped your chin. “But trust me, you don’t wanna see what happens if you leave me with her for much longer.”

And then, all hell broke loose. Someone— you were pretty sure you knew who— charged the demons holding you hostage and you heard Bobby yell, “Salt’s broken!” as the demon holding you up dropped you to the floor. About ten demons ran past you into the house, and you were left trying to get out of the binds you were held in. You were growing more and more frustrated by the second until someone came up from behind you.

“Need a little help?” a gorgeous blonde asked, smirking down at you.

“Who the hell are you?” you asked. “Get away from me!”

“Baby, if I wanted to kill you, I would’ve already.” The woman pushed you upright into a sitting position and cut through the ropes binding your hands.

Confused and startled, you watched the woman walk up to the house. “You’re welcome,” she remarked over her shoulder.

“Thank you,” you replied, still confused. You shook your head to snap yourself alert and stood. You were completely unsure of what to do now; you desperately wanted to help your friends, but you were scared of facing Dean and had no weapons. Alone outside of a house you didn’t recognize deep in the woods, you decided to hotwire the car the demons brought you there in.

By some miracle, you managed to find the interstate and, eventually, your motel. When you’d showered, changed, and dressed the deep bruises and brush burns on your wrists from the rope the demons had used on you, you wrapped your arms around your stomach and laid on your side in bed.

You didn’t get much sleep that night, though; you were too busy stifling tears while your mind ran wild with possible scenarios that could’ve happened after you abandoned the boys. You felt horribly guilty already.

Your guilt was made even worse when Bobby called you around five in the morning.

“What the hell was that?” he scolded through the phone.

You grimaced. “Bobby—”

“No, (Y/N). You don’t abandon family like that,” he raged.

“I didn’t have any weapons! And since when do I have a family?!”

“Since the day I found you in the woods holding your guts in your goddamn hands!” he roared, and your guilt immediately sank deeper.

“Bobby, I’m sorry—”

“You don’t have to apologize to me, kid. It’s Sam and Dean I’d worry about,” he replied, voice softening slightly— or, as much as Bobby’s voice could, anyway.

“What? Why?”

“You left again. Without saying goodbye. Or making sure that they were okay. Dean’s pissed; Sam’s just hurt.”

‘Ouch,’ you thought. “I’m sorry. I just didn’t wanna be in the way, and I didn’t have any weapons, and when I saw that girl going to help you, I figured it was better if I just left—”

“So you saw her, too?” Bobby questioned.

“Of course, I saw her. Why wouldn’t I have seen her?” you replied.

“ ‘Cause Sam said she disappeared. And the knife she had killed three demons,” Bobby explained.

“What?! What the hell kind of knife can kill demons?” you exclaimed.

“Ask me yesterday, and I would’ve said there’s no such thing,” he said. “I thought Sam mighta been losin’ his mind, but since you saw her, too...” Bobby trailed off. “Look, I think you should give ‘em a call. Just let ‘em know you’re all right. And apologize.” The last part of Bobby’s statement sounded more like an order.

“I’ll call Sam,” you replied after a moment.

“No, (Y/N), Dean, too. You two need to sort out whatever the hell’s wrong with you,” Bobby asserted.

You went quiet for a moment.

“And call me when you get wherever you’re goin’,” he finished, “so I know you’re okay.”

The line cut out, and you smiled sadly. You felt absolutely horrible for leaving the way that you did, and you knew the right thing to do would be to call Sam and Dean; separately. You knew you had to face up to Dean at some point, but it just didn’t seem like the right time. But, Christ, did you miss him. You wanted him to apologize for not calling, you wanted to apologize for leaving— there were so many things you’d say to him. And yet, you couldn’t bring yourself to pick up the phone.

You got up from your bed and crossed in front of the blackened television, jumping at the sight of your reflection. It was your guard uniform once more, scrapes up the left side of your arm and face, hair a complete mess, and buttons on your shirt buttoned haphazardly. You tried to steady yourself and take a breath.

You hated trying to deal with this alone. Your body didn’t feel like your own anymore. You felt you couldn’t control the world around you like you used to feel before the prison case. It felt like things would never be okay, and you were never going to feel at home in yourself again. You didn’t like feeling helpless or like you needed anyone, but you truly needed your friends. Your pride fought your rational mind valiantly, telling you that you shouldn’t call because you can handle this alone. You shouldn’t call because you’ve never needed anyone before; why would you now? And yet, there was another part of you saying that you’ve always needed someone, this was just the first time you actually had someone.

***

The day after leaving Lincoln, Nebraska, you began driving aimlessly again. You almost cried when you turned on the engine and rock music didn’t immediately start blaring from the speakers. The seats of the car felt uncomfortable and made you miss the polished leather of the Impala’s. You loved driving, but it didn’t feel right without Dean and Sam in the front seat ahead of you.

Sam would often joke that he and his brother were your babysitters due to your designated seating positions in the car, and Dean would often say he wished he had “that sliding window thing—” “partition,” “thank you, Sam,” so he didn’t have to hear you chirping from the backseat.

None of the radio stations could rival the comforting background noise that was Dean’s cassette tape collection. You felt cramped without your seat to spread out across. The thing that made you call Sam, though, was the moment you slammed on the brakes and the book Sam read to you about Egypt while you had your concussion flew out of your duffel bag on the seat next to you. Tears swam in your eyes at the sight, and you finally gave in.

“What, (Y/N)?” Sam annoyedly answered the phone.

‘Jesus. Harsh,’ you thought. “I, uh. I just wanted to call and say that I’m sorry,” you began. “For leaving. Both times. And… just wanted to tell you that I hope you’re okay.”

You could practically hear the aggravation leaving Sam’s body as you spoke. One of your favorite things about your friend was how forgiving of a person he was.

“I appreciate that,” Sam replied. He paused for a minute. “Why’d you do it, man?”

“I didn’t have any weapons. I saw the blonde chick go in to help you after she cut me loose, so I figured, I’d be doing more harm than good by staying—”

“No. The first time,” Sam cut you off.

“Dean didn’t tell you?” you asked, genuinely surprised. “I thought you knew this whole time.”

“(Y/N), since when does Dean tell me anything. I mean, it literally took me nearly beating it out of him for him to tell me that if the deal’s broken, I die—”

“What?!” you exclaimed, furious. “Since when? Why the fuck would he make that deal?!”

“I said the same thing,” Sam replied calmly.

“He’s so fucking selfish!”

“I completely agree.”

“He doesn’t get to be mad at me for leaving when I literally told him I love him, and he’s gonna fucking leave me in a year because of some stupid demon deal!” you continued to yell, not realizing what you’d admitted to Sam.

He was taken aback. “Whoa, you what?”

You suddenly processed what you’d said. “Yeah. I did.”

“Jesus,” Sam sighed. “I’m so sorry, (Y/N/N).”

“It’s fine,” you replied, suddenly feeling like you were too vulnerable. “I’m just pissed.”

The younger brother paused for a moment. “Will you at least talk to him? Try to work things out?”

“Not a chance in hell,” you scoffed. “I don’t want things to work out. I don’t wanna watch him die in a year, Sammy.” Your voice quivered.

He paused again. “I get it. I wouldn’t want to either if I were you.”

“I’m sorry,” you said softly.

“Me, too,” he replied. “Will you at least call every once in a while?”

Your chest ached at the realization that you may not be hunting with the brothers again for quite some time. “Absolutely.”

You could’ve sworn you heard him sniffle on the other end of the line. “Bye, (Y/N).”

“Till next time, Sammy.”

Series Rewrite Taglist: @polireader @brightlilith @atcamillanorrman @jrizzelle @insomnia-bookworm @procrastination20 @mrs-liebgott @djs8891 @tiggytaylor @staple-your-mouth @jesstherebel @rach5ive @strawberrykiwisdogog @bruhidkjustwannaread @mxltifxnd0m @sunshine-on-marz @big-ol-boat @mgchaser @capncrankle @chervbs @simpingdeadcharacters @nesnejwritings @stillhere197 @tearsforhan @take-it-on-the-run @iloveyou2mia @maxinehufflepuffprincess @ohgeehowdigethere @seninjakitey @berarenado @s0urw00lf @princessleahorgana @quarterhorse19 @isla-finke-blog @silverdoragon @karacaroldanvers @gayandfairycore @examishbookwyrm @star-yawnznn @real-sharena-h @fandomloverrr @metalmonki @onlyangel-444 @yu-winchester @benniwiththefanni @daisychaingirl @immagods @missmieux @yoongi-holland @littledebbieinabigworld

#dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x y/n #dean winchester x you #dean x reader #dean x y/n #dean x you #dean winchester #supernatural #supernatural series rewrite #spn #spn series rewrite

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marvelmaniac715 · 1 year ago

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I want to see more of Webby and the Lords in Black as just regular siblings, with dynamics like Pokey suffering from forgotten middle child syndrome (which is why I think he wants the loudest voice to be his own) Wiggly trying to act as the peacemaker because he’s the oldest brother (he’s their leader, of course he’s the oldest), Tinky cackling in a corner and being given the side eye by his confused brothers, Nibbly eating everything, Blinky watching all the drama go down and Webby just trying to exist whilst her brothers are mean to her for no reason. Here’s an example of what could go down in the Black and White on a weekly basis:

Tinky: Have any of you seen my Bastard’s Box? I put it down right here and I can’t find it.

Blinky: I haven’t seen it, and I see everything-

Tinky: I know, Blinky, you tell us every day.

Pokey: I think I saw-

Tinky: Shut up Pokey, we’re trying to solve a mystery here.

Wiggly: What’s the problem here? I’m trying to focus, Wiley had a new scheme he was trying to tell me about.

Tinky: Talk to your boyfriend later, we have a crisis here!

Wiggly: He’s not my- never mind, what’s going on?

Tinky *crying*: I lost my box! Teddy Bear’s in there and now he’s all alone with nobody to torture him!

Wiggly: Don’t cry, Tinky, we’ll find it.

Tinky: I bet it was Webby, that stupid bitch is always taking our stuff! I’m gonna go find her-

Pokey: It wasn’t Webby-

Wiggly: Pokey, could you shut the fuck up? Tinky’s upset.

Webby *teleporting into the Black*: I heard you say my name, what do my darling brothers want today?

Wiggly: Did you take Tinky��s box?

Webby: I’m not a monster like you, but now I wish I had because torturing humans is bad-

Tinky: You’re so stupid! Torturing humans is fun, what else is there for us to do?

Webby: Save humanity? Be benevolent gods?

Wiggly: This is why we disowned you, get out.

Webby *disappearing*: Can’t say I didn’t try…

Nibbly *casually strolling in whilst sucking on his lollipop*: What’s going on? I went to get a snack and missed everything. Fill me in, won’t you Blinky?

Blinky: Someone took Tinky’s Bastard’s Box. It’s been a lot of fun watching this, even more fun than Watcher World.

Nibbly: Oh, the box thing? I ate it, sorry.

Tinky *in shock*: You… ate it? How… why… just- what?

Nibbly: It looked like candy, I was hungry, you do the math.

Pokey: Not that any of you care about what I have to say, but someone from Hatchetfield is trying to summon us again.

#hatchetfield #starkid #team starkid #the guy who didn't like musicals #black friday musical #nerdy prudes must die #tinky #blinky #pokey #nibbly #wiggly #webby #lords in black #incorrect quotes #humour #humor #nightmare time

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honeybeezgobzzzzz · 11 months ago

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☠️ Something Dread, Something Red: Chapter Five

Something Dread, Something Red: Stuck in a proposal to a Marine Commodore, you escape minutes before your wedding in one last ditch effort to avoid getting married to a tyrant. Barely making it to the port of your town, you stumble across a ship just starting to leave and beg for passage off the island. You fail to notice that the people you beg for help, are pirates.

Warnings: None.

To Note: “Red Haired” Shanks x FemReader

Word Count: ~2.9k

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2 Weeks Later

You wake to the gentle sway of the ship, happy to find that the storm which had ravaged the sea the last three days has finally passed. Choppy waters are not pleasant on the stomach. You’ve learned that in the first few days on board the ship, but the nausea hasn’t taken away from the absolute beauty of the sea. Rolling onto your back, you stare at the ceiling of the cabin and wonder what you will be doing today.

It has already taken you a great amount of effort to argue with the crew to help around the ship so you don’t feel like you are freeloading off their backs. You’ve already stolen Shanks’ bed from him, a non-negotiable point he reminds you of every time you bring it up, much to the scowl he finds rather adorable. You are his guest and a lady on board his ship. But that doesn’t mean you can’t sneak into Lucky’s kitchen and help out.

Sighing to yourself, you sit up in bed and swing your legs over the side of the hanging bed. You wiggle your toes and look at the worn bandages Hongo has wrapped around your feet. The healing nicks and cuts are starting to itch terribly, and you are contemplating asking Hongo how long they need to remain. You are pretty sure he won’t be happy if you just rip the bandages off by yourself. So you reach for the makeshift boots and pull them on by the sides.

You kick out your feet while reaching for the hair tie Benn had given you. Even with your hair now neatly resting around your shoulders (Benn had neatened up the strands so they aren’t off-sided and terrible looking), you pull it back into a ponytail to keep it from catching on any of the equipment on the ship. So after you do just that, you slip from the hanging bed and rub your shoulder. It too has started to itch. You’ll ask Hongo to look at it later.

Of course, you probably should ask Shanks, as he was the one to last see it and know if it is healing as it should… but you have been trying your best not to bother him or the crew with their daily routines. You’ve already intruded as it were. Well, like you have in the past week, you plan on heading to the kitchen to help Lucky out with breakfast for the crew. It is the least you feel you can do. So you trot towards the door of the cabin and slip out.

It is still pretty early, and some of the crew are asleep in the same spots they had been drinking the prior nights. Liquor bottles litter the deck. You pick up a couple of empty bottles on your way to the kitchen, holding them against your chest while wondering how they can drink this much and still function. Oh well, it’s not like you are the one drinking; you’ll leave the mystery of curing a hangover to the professionals. Dropping the empty bottles into a crate full of other empty liquor bottles, you step into the kitchen, which already smells heavily of breakfast. Lucky glances up at you.

“One of these days we’re gonna teach you the fine art of sleeping in,” he rumbles, flipping several stacks of sausages. “Ain’t no one telling you to get up at the crack of dawn.”

“It’s a habit,” you shrug in your defense. “Besides, I’ve been getting surprisingly good sleep the last few days… I think being allowed to eat is helping. Also, I’m not hungover… what can I do to help?”

Lucky wants to argue with you that you are a guest and no guest on this ship would be put to work… but it has become quite clear that you won’t take no for an answer. For a noble lady, you are quite insistent. So Lucky gestures to the eggs he has yet to crack with the spatula he holds.

“Haven’t gotten around to fixin’ the eggs yet,” he speaks, shifting the sausages on the flat top around. “You can start with them and whip them up. The men usually have ‘em scrambled; easiest to fix large amounts that way.”

“I am half convinced you all are bottomless pits,” you comment, moving to the eggs. Now, you might be severely lacking in cooking, but you have spent a lot of time watching Lucky Roux cook to learn some basics. Like how to crack an egg without getting shell in it or how to chop vegetables. He’d even slowed down peeling carrots so you could see how to do it without cutting yourself. Every member of the Red Haired Pirates is a true gentleman through and through.

It is impossible to count the number of eggs in front of you, and you aren’t going to bother counting them. You just get to cracking them in the large bowl set out in front of you. Tap. Crack. Plop. Tap. Crack. Plop. Your nose wrinkles when a piece of a shell decides to drop into the bowl, and you have to go digging for it. It doesn’t make you squeamish, but it does slow things down because the damn thing keeps moving around! After the fifth time, you let out a curse beneath your breath (that you’ve picked up from the men despite their efforts not to curse around a gentle lady such as yourself), Lucky eyes you.

“What’d the eggs do to you?” he comments half-heartedly. You huff indignantly and move on to the next egg, cracking it against the side of the large bowl a little harder than necessary.

“Not break nicely,” you retort beneath your breath before clearing your throat. “Little bits of shells continually fall despite my efforts to maintain that they do not. My apologies if I miss picking them out.” Lucky blinks at your switch to such formal language, then reminds himself to yell at the crew to watch their mouths better and shrugs.

“Pretty sure the men’ll eat it so fast they won’t even notice; sides’, it’s extra calcium.”

“Well, I prefer my eggs not crunchy,” you mutter dryly as Lucky goes back to flipping sausage. Soon the entire kitchen begins to smell like bacon, and you know that any second the drunkards will wander in, drooling and moaning about their terrible headache. So you finish cracking the eggs and clean up the remaining shells before beginning the task of beating the eggs up.

It is an awkward job for you as the bowl is big and there are many eggs to beat, and you are still thin and frail from your mother’s strict diet. It often amazes you how easily the men on the ship can lift things as if they are made of feathers, or climb up high onto the masts and wrangle the sails, or even Lucky effortlessly mixing up a giant pot of soup. You can’t help the flickers of jealousy that run through your body.

One day. One day you are going to be strong. Maybe not like them, but you’ll be able to hold your own.

Grabbing a cleaning rag, you begin wiping down the space you’ve been cracking eggs and gotten egg on. You certainly haven’t been the neatest or cleanest, but you’ve gotten the job done and can crack an egg. So you can theoretically feed yourself when you are on your own, not that you have experience in actually cooking eggs, but it is a far cry from where you started. You’ve never had to fix your own meals before, but Lucky is taking the time to humor your unasked questions and curiosity.

Just as you are picking up a few used cooking utensils, you hear the sound of incoming feet. Two weeks on board the Red Force have given you enough time to pick up on the different footsteps of the crew. Your ear tells you that you need to immediately abandon helping Lucky. Throwing the rag across the kitchen, you scurry over to the counter opposite Lucky and plaster an innocent look upon your face.

Shanks walks into the kitchen, face tired and hand rubbing his eyes. He still looks half asleep, but the moment his eyes catch sight of your frame, he straightens up and looks at you closer. Lucky hasn’t put you to work, has he? You blink at him, your lashes fluttering around innocent eyes framed by lavender.

“You’re up early, Linaria,” he comments, further moving into the kitchen and reaching for a glass. “Thought I told you to sleep as long as you want. You are our guest.” Shanks doesn’t miss the face you make at his repeated reference that you are a guest.

“I’m up because I wish to be, Captain,” you reply eloquently while Shanks fills his glass with water. “Besides, I’ve never felt more rested, and I didn’t spend the night drinking.” At your mention of the previous night’s indulgence in spirits, Shanks winces, remembering that he is hungover. Your beauty always manages to distract him, even from a headache. Shanks pinches his nose and resists groaning.

“Aye, and I suggest that you keep it that way, madam,” you watch the red-haired man grimace before taking a sip of water. “As much as I love a good drink, I can’t say I enjoy what comes afterward.”

“And yet you still drink,” you tease the hungover pirate. “I’m beginning to think you are a glutton for punishment.”

“No, just a man that enjoys life on the sea,” Shanks replies, enjoying the teasing hint of a smirk on your lips. Before he finds himself staring at you, Shanks turns to Lucky and takes a deep whiff of the cooking sausage and bacon. The cook has just begun to scramble the copious amounts of eggs on the flat top. “That smells divine, Luck. The men’ll be happy that you got a head start on the food.”

Lucky can’t help but eye you, and you question whether or not he’ll rat you out to the captain. But rather than tattle, Lucky just shrugs and waves his spatula around.

“Grub’ll be up in a minute, wouldn’t be surprised if the crew begins nosing into the kitchen,” Lucky says, stirring up the heap of cooking eggs. “Better get your plate now, little lady, before they converge on it.”

“We’re not animals,” Shanks grumbles, leaning back against a counter and massaging his aching forehead.

“Perhaps not, but when you are hungry, just about,” you slip in with a huff and roll of your eyes. As Lucky slips a piece of sausage onto your plate followed by a dollop of scrambled eggs, Shanks gulps down the rest of his water and watches you carefully. He isn’t blind to your sneakings, but you are very good at covering your tracks regarding your insistence on helping around the ship. Growing up with a mother like yours, he figures you have long since learned how to tread quietly and move in the shadows. Useful skills but a pity that someone like you had learned them.

No doubt you had a hand in this morning’s breakfast; there is no way Lucky would have been able to focus on cooking the meat and crack the number of eggs it takes to feed the men. You are a noble lady and a guest upon his ship, but if you go out of your way to sneak around to help, Shanks won’t impede you.

You have eaten your food and washed your plate before making your way up onto the deck to enjoy the sea breeze. Before eating breakfast, the men had cleaned up empty bottles from the previous night of drinking. Now, while you are standing next to the wheel of the Red Force, you draw your fingers along intricate details carved into wood. The Red Force is by no means a new ship; the wood is worn smooth, and the sails are sun-bleached. But you can also see the care and attention the crew gives the ship.

Metal fixtures are rust-free and polished until they shine; there are no places of rotting or weak wood, and it is clean. Not to say that you have any experience with ships before; the Red Force is the first ship you have ever stepped on, but there is no clutter of netting or rope, and everything has its place. You never thought that pirates could be so disciplined with their ship.

“Not that you’ve had experience with pirates before,” you mutter to yourself, trailing your fingers up the steering wheel to brush one of the handles. By far, the steering wheel is the most worn and smooth wood on the ship. Just stroking your fingertip along the wood indicates the usage.

“I’m going to take a guess that you’ve never been on a ship like the Red Force before,” at Shanks’ voice, you turn your head to the nearby staircase. He is leaning against the railing, shirt fluttering in the breeze and not eating like the rest of the crew.

“More like I’ve never been on a ship, period,” you correct him, drawing your fingers back from the steering wheel. “This is my first time on a ship and first time off Kuri Island. Actually, I’ve never even been off the Bonn Manor grounds.” Your words should be shocking to Shanks, but they aren’t. You are the daughter of a prominent noble family and raised exactly how your mother wanted you. What does surprise him, is that you managed to get yourself to the harbor without having left the grounds of your home.

“Do you miss it?” he asks, slowly coming closer and watching your body language. You are relaxed, at peace, a sight he is glad to see. But in your eyes still brews unease.

“If I never see another chestnut in my life, I will die a very happy woman,” you huff out, nose scrunching. “No, I don’t miss it. I’ve never had this much freedom in my life before, and I don’t want to lose that. Seasickness aside, I like the breeze and watching the water.”

“I can agree with you there,” Shanks comes to a stop on the opposite side of the large steering wheel. “Seasickness is a tough ailment to have; it gets better the longer you’re on the water, but even the best sailors still get sick from time to time.”

“I’ll take being seasick on occasion if it means I can be free like this,” you murmur, looking out at the churning waves with fondness. Shanks has no doubts that you will bear terrible seasickness just to be on the water. “I’ll probably have the easiest time avoiding being caught by my parents if I stick to being on a ship rather than on land. It would be prudent of me to acquire my own ship.” Shanks can’t help but chuckle.

“Forgive me for asking, but do you have the faintest clue how to sail and navigate, Linaria?” he asks you, his eyebrow raised in inquisition. You purse your lips, knowing he has a point, but that won’t stop you.

“Not exactly, but I’ve read plenty of books from my father’s library when my mother was out. I will learn somehow.” Of that, he has no doubt, but the quality of teaching is just as important as the material, and Shanks has a feeling that you might seek help from someone with ill intentions.

“Come here,” he speaks, stepping in front of the wheel but leaving enough room for you. You raise your own eyebrow at him but do as he asks. Standing in front of the red-haired man, you blink when he points to faded marks carved into the rail in front of the wheel. “The first thing you need to know about sailing is the sides of your ship for navigation purposes. We don’t use left or right.”

“Starboard and port, right?” you speak up, remembering the book you had flipped through on a rainy afternoon after tea time. Looking over your shoulder, you see a small smile on Shanks’ lips. “Don’t smile at me yet; I don’t remember which is which.” This time he laughs.

“Knowing that we don’t use left and right already puts you ahead of beginners,” Shanks tells you before gesturing to the P and the S carved into the wood. “Port is the left side of the ship; starboard is right. Bow is front; stern is back.”

“And I see someone needed a reminder,” you say, leaning forward to look at the faded letters.

“Not everyone gets the hang of it right away; it’s better to have it written down so we don’t get mixed up.”

“Something tells me that it doesn’t help navigating the Grand Line.”

“The Grand Line is no place for a lady such as yourself; get that thought out of your mind,” Shanks tells you, his voice and tone serious.

“How do you even know what I am thinking?” He reaches up and gently knocks his knuckles against your forehead.

“I can see your thoughts through your eyes, Linaria. The Grand Line is dangerous. Even for me.”

“It wasn’t a bad idea,” you mutter to yourself, running your fingers over the wheel yet again.

“No. It was a terrible idea,” Shanks corrects, making sure that you are looking him in the eyes. “No entertaining the Grand Line, no thinking about the Grand Line, no planning the Grand Line. Got it?”

“Has anyone ever told you that you are bossy?” you question, fully understanding Shanks’ whole Grand Line Bad spiel. The man places his hand on the wheel and stares insistently at you.

“Yes?” he enunciates.

“Quite so. Grand Line bad. Blues good.”

Date Published: 12/7/23

Last Edit: 7/29/24

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#shanks x you #shanks x reader #red haired shanks #one piece shanks #shanks #one piece #opla shanks

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irisintheafterglow · 1 year ago

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I Think He Knows (pro!kirishima x you)

summary: he's not into party games, so what do you do for seven minutes when you're locked in the closet with your high school crush?

wc: 2.9k

cw/tags: aged up characters!!, friends to lovers, mutual pining, swearing (lots of it), truth or dare, slightly suggestive toward the end but nothing descriptive, first kiss, alcohol and drinking, just pro heroes being idiots

note: prompt is once again from @creativepromptsforwriting because i wanted to write a silly party confession fic ! hope you enjoy, i did NOT mean for this to become this long lmao. he's literally so boyfriend why can't he be real

likes/reblogs/feedback is always appreciated <3

“I want him so bad I’m gonna pass out,” she confesses, throwing herself onto your body and sighing longingly. “Do you think he thinks of me often?”

“Now I really feel like we’re in high school again, ‘chaco. I think you should talk to him about your love life instead of me. Maybe he’ll get the hint, that way.”

“Hypocrite.” She scowls at you over the rim of her plastic cup, downing another serving of punch with questionable amounts of alcohol. “I had to hear about your infatuation all the time.”

You stick your tongue out defiantly. “It wasn’t an infatuation. It was just a crush, that’s all.”

“Yeah, a crush that lasted three whole years,” she hiccups, crossing her legs next to you on the couch and leaning her head on your shoulder. “Do you think about him often? Remember, no lies.” Your eyes immediately gravitate to who she’s talking about, supervising some drinking game at the wet bar that has Kaminari’s eyes watering and Shoto’s face bright red. Deku tries in vain to stop Bakugo from downing shot after shot, ultimately accepting a mystery concoction handed to him by Sero. He immediately spits it out all over Bakugo and both of them are so intoxicated they can’t aim hits at each other correctly. You laugh under your breath and quickly dart your eyes away when Kirishima looks over his shoulder in your direction. Ochaco nods knowingly, giving your thigh a squeeze that startles you. “Oh, you definitely do.”

Before you can respond, Mina throws the front door of Sero’s house open followed closely by Jiro and Momo. Overflowing grocery bags of junk food line her arms and she kicks the door shut behind her as her hands are both holding a bottle of soju each. Cheers echo through the house at her arrival and she bows dramatically.

“Looks like the party’s finally here,” Ochaco winks at you before joining Tsu to help Mina unload the groceries. You shake your head as your chest feels the familiar lightness that always came when your entire class was happy and having fun. It was Mina’s idea to have a reunion party, after all, and you knew everyone was looking forward to it. It was scheduled months ago because everyone’s calendars needed to line up and from the looks of it, all of you needed the break. With the press kept back by several thousands of volts of electricity running through the perimeter gate of Sero’s house, you and your friends could finally relax.

Or, so you thought.

“Okay, party people! Now that we’re all slightly fucked up, it’s time for some games! First game is 7 Minutes in Heaven!”

“As if this hasn’t been 45 minutes of Hell already,” Shinso deadpans from a neighboring armchair, but even you could tell he was enjoying himself by the slight quirk in the corner of his mouth.

Mina sends a joking glare at him, chucking a balled-up napkin at him. “Get in the fucking circle, Hitoshi.”

You slide down from the couch onto the floor and feel a muscular bicep press against your arm. “You mind if I sit here?” When you turn to that all-too-familiar voice, you’re blinded by a bright shark-toothed grin and glittering crimson eyes. You smile and nod in assent, eyes widening when you look away to stop your heart from racing. You catch Ochaco’s gaze and she smirks mischievously, to which you loudly suggest the seat next to her when Deku is trying to find a spot in the circle. You wink at her and crack open another can of some fruity mixed drink.

“So!” Mina begins as Jiro positions an empty glass bottle on the coffee table in the middle of the circle. “Do we all know the rules of 7 Minutes in Heaven–”

“Why the fuck are we using a bottle?” Bakugo’s rough voice cuts through the polite silence and Mina rolls her eyes. “Isn’t that a different fucking game?”

“It’s only there to ensure no bias in the participants of the game, Bakugo,” Shoto boredly drawls. His face is blank when his eyes meet Bakugo’s. “If we wanted, we could spin your dense head–”

“You wanna go, Ice Pack?”

“Let’s allow Mina to finish speaking!” Ever the diplomat, Momo shakes her head impatiently while she effectively halts the two Pros’ piss match. You feel Kirishima’s sigh of relief that he didn’t have to restrain anyone and bite your lip to suppress a chuckle.

“As I was saying,” she continues as she delicately dances around the circle. “The bottle will be spun two times. If it lands between two people on the first go-around, those people have to go in. But normally, whoever the bottle points at gets locked in the closet with the other person who’s pointed at for seven minutes. What you two do for those seven minutes…” A suggestive glint flashes across Mina’s dark eyes and she shrugs carefreely. “That’s none of our business.”

An awkward silence settles over the group as Mina continues to stand but seems to be expecting someone else to speak. She clears her throat and Denki suddenly perks up with something to say. “Wait, is this when I do the thing?” Your eyebrows dip in confusion, as do most of your other classmates except for Mina and Sero.

“Yes, Denki. This is when you do the thing, so go get it.” Sero pinches the bridge of his nose as Denki shoots upward, running down the hallway to grab something from the storage closet. When he returns, he triumphantly holds a cardboard box labeled “HEART RATE MONITOR x2.”

Deku groans, covering his face as Mina beams. “Oh, no…”

“Oh, yes.”

“Did you steal that from some fuckin’ pharmacy?” Bakugo and Shoto both appear horrified.

“What? No! I got it from my neighbor’s garage sale.”

“That’s even worse!”

Sounds of protest erupt from your classmates and you can’t help giggling at their reluctance to have their heart rate tracked. From your time in high school and into your professional career, you knew you never got picked during these games. You were resting easy knowing you never had to kiss one of your friends because of some stupid bottle. Especially with the positioning of Kirishima right next to you, the odds of you two needing to go into the closet together were slim to none. Tonight, you knew, would be no different than the past as you vaguely listened to Denki explain the use of the heart rate monitor.

“Basically, we’re gonna call out if you’re making the other person’s pulse jump. It’s like that one part of that couples show we caught Iida watching during our second year,” Mina summarizes and Iida’s stoic voice pipes up in defense of his “research” on how best to acquire a lover while the circle snickers at the memory. Tokoyami’s hand reaches up to pat his shoulder sympathetically.

“Alright, spin the fuckin’ bottle already! I’m literally aging over here.” Kirishima snorts next to you, hiding a choked laugh with a cough into his sleeve and you jokingly pat his back in concern. You’re too preoccupied with looking at him to notice the gasps and noises of shock as the bottle finishes its rotation around the circle. Confused at the excited expressions of your friends, you look down to see who the bottle pointed at.

It was between you and Kirishima.

You had to play 7 Minutes in Heaven with the boy you had a crush on for the entirety of high school.

Your mind blacked out, face feeling like it was on fire as you both were hooked up to one heart monitor each. You didn’t dare glance at Kirishima because, for all you knew, he was irritated about being picked for these types of games since it wasn’t manly. Ochaco waggled her eyebrows at you and you felt slightly nauseous as she hooked up the machine to your pulse, guiding the wires under the door. “We’ll see you in seven minutes,” Mina crooned. “Have fun!”

The door locked and you were in complete darkness with him. It was suffocatingly quiet, so silent that breathing felt like a trumpeting elephant. Hushed whispers come from the other side of the door as your classmates analyze your pulse.

Jesus, his heart is racing. Like, dangerously fast!

So is theirs. Doesn’t sound like they’re doing anything in there, though.

You think he’ll actually make a move tonight?

Dude, shut the fuck up. They can probably hear us through the door.

You swallow and wince when the noise is audible in the isolated quiet of the closet.

“So, uh–”

“I, um–”

You both start to speak and cut off just as abruptly, apologizing profusely and insisting the other go first. He takes a deep breath before he speaks again.

“Look, honestly, I’m not really…into these types of games,” he starts, breath ragged but you couldn’t imagine why. “I don’t really know how to explain it, I just…”

“I know. It’s okay. Not manly to make out or do God knows what with someone you’re not dating, right?” Your laugh is shaky and you mentally kick yourself for feeling so jittery.

“Yeah,” he exhales, relieved that you’re not going to expect him to do something he was uncomfortable with. You know damn well he would never make you do something you were uncomfortable with. It’s quiet again for a few moments before he clears his throat and continues. “But… I feel bad just making you sit here in awkward silence so…do you wanna play truth or dare instead?”

Oh, shit, their heart rate finally spiked!

Why’s it say that his breathing is super shallow?

You’re reading something wrong because that’s definitely not what this measures.

“Sure.” You hear him shift around in his seat on the floor and you lean against the wall, pulling your legs close. “Wanna go first?”

“Yeah. Alright, uh…well, truth or dare?”

You choose the safe option, always. “Truth.” You had no idea what he would possibly ask you, but you knew it was probably going to be harmless.

“What’s your type?” Your blood runs cold in your veins and you pray that your heartbeat isn’t as loud in reality as it is in your ears. He must mistake your silence for confusion. “Like…in a guy.”

“Um…” Your voice trails off, mind running at a million miles an hour to bury your secret. “Someone nice, I guess.” He hums in acknowledgement, waiting for you to explain further. “I’d like him to be supportive of me and my career. Good with my friends, that’s a given. Uh…yeah. Just not a scumbag.” You laugh to relieve some of the tension in your chest and feel a little lighter when you hear him chuckle too. “I don’t really care about body type or looks; I just want him to be a good person who will treat me right. In my dreams, I’d like him to treat me like I’m royalty, adore me and whatever. That’s hard to come by these days, though.”

Fuck, his pulse is racing!

What could they be doing in there so quietly that’s making him so nervous?

Shall we alert medical personnel?

No, Iida. You can see their hearts are still beating right here.

“Alright, well. I hope you find the man of your dreams then. He sounds great.” In the darkness, you could have sworn he sounded almost…disappointed? “Okay, your turn. Ask me.”

“Hmm, okay. Truth or dare?”

“Truth.”

The question slips out before you can stop it. You blame the liquid courage and the mystery drink Ochaco made for you. “What’s your type?”

Wow, that’s a huge spike for him.

It looks like their heart rate has leveled out; does that mean they’re not nervous anymore?

Maybe, or maybe they’re used to the energy now. He’s still a stuttering mess in there, I bet.

“Uh, someone familiar, if that makes sense. Like, you know, hero stuff can get really exhausting. I think my type is just someone who I can come home to and who’ll love me even through the good and the bad. Someone to help me fight battles, physical and mental, you know?” You nod and realize he can’t see it, so you settle for humming in agreement. Your brain feels fuzzy and it takes a considerable amount of effort to focus on the smooth tone of his voice.

“Do you remember the first battle we fought together?”

“Of course I do.” You can hear the fond smile in his voice. “I volunteered to partner with you because I thought you were cool.”

“You didn’t know anything about me yet.”

“Didn’t matter. It just felt right to be with you.”

Huge spike for both of them!

Seems like he’s having a whole rollercoaster of emotions in there.

Your heart stops again and you wish there was light so you could read his expression, whether he meant it platonically or something more. “Okay, my turn. Would you ever date anyone outside? Like from our friend group?”

He’s silent for a long time and you worry he didn’t hear you correctly before he gives a definitive, “No.” Impulse takes hold of your mind.

“Why not?”

“I’m just not interested in any of them.”

“But you are interested in someone?” The second question falls from your lips naturally and you don’t expect him to answer it considering that it wasn’t part of the game.

His pulse is slowly increasing again. He must be getting nervous.

“Yeah, I am.” Your heart drops into your stomach. Of course he was interested in someone, and they were probably interested back, but the likelihood of it being you was in your wildest dreams.

“Hmm, okay. Your turn.”

“Are you interested in anyone in our friend group?”

Your voice chokes in your throat. “Y-Yeah.” Sweat beads on your burning face and for the first time, you’re grateful for the lack of light so he can’t see how much you’re panicking.

“Are they outside right now?”

“It’s my turn to ask, Kiri.”

“You got an extra one on me, if you think I didn’t notice.” His voice is dangerously low, more serious than you’ve heard him in a long time. “So. Is the person you’re interested in outside right now?”

Both their pulses are racing again.

They must be talking about something because this doesn’t happen if you’re just kissing the entire time.

Oh, because you have lots of experience kissing and getting people’s heart rates up?

Ask your mom about my experience with kissing–

You asshole–

Shut the hell up! I’m trying to eavesdrop!

You steady your resolve, inhaling and exhaling deeply before answering the expectant darkness. “No, they’re not out there right now.” You can hear the confusion cross his face as he calculates who in your friend group was absent.

“Who are you–”

“He’s in here with me.” The smallest oh escapes his lips and you pray for the time to go faster, body burning in shame. “Sorry, this is a really weird way of telling you, but…”

“Can I kiss you?”

Your brain short-circuits.

“Huh?” You question dumbly.

“I wanna kiss you. Please.”

“You don’t have to, Kiri, really. You don’t have to play the rules of the game if–”

“This isn’t about the game anymore. I wanna kiss you, game or no game.”

“Why?”

“Because I like you.” He huffs and you hear him run a hand through his hair in the darkness. He only did that when he was nervous. You were making him nervous. “You’re the only one I’m interested in, the only one I’ve been interested in since high school.”

What the fuck?

Denki, your fucking machine broke!

We lost their pulses!

Did those idiots break the heart rate monitor?

I think you broke the heart monitor, stupid.

You’re speechless and, tired of words, you crawl toward his voice in the darkness. It seems that he had the same idea as he receives you eagerly. His calloused hands pull you into his lap until you’re on top of him, fiddling with the hair at the back of his neck. His breath is hot on your neck as you wait there for something to happen and you sigh into his mouth when it finally finds yours. The first kiss is gentle and sweet, careful not to scare you away. But after you catch your breath and pull him closer by his jacket collar, his fingers firmly press into your hips, running over the eaves of your body. Your breath comes short and fast and you needily pull him closer as he confidently meets your wordless demands. He pulls away for a moment, pressing a light kiss to your cheek.

“Kiri…”

“Eijiro.”

“Eiji, please.”

“Hold on. It’s been seven minutes. And, for the record, I want to date you.”

You’re barely able to supply your agreement before a loud banging on the closet door startles you.

Alright, lovebirds, that’s time! Opening up the door in three…two…what?

Before they can open the door, you catch the telltale sound of Eijiro hardening his arm and a spark of light as he slams his fist down on the door handle, locking you in but also locking everyone else out.

Oh, shit! He actually did it!

This was his entire fucking plan?

You better pay for my door when you inevitably break it open!

Let them be; it’s been a long time coming.

“Now, where were we?” You laugh in disbelief at the smug grin in his voice as he gently bites the juncture where your neck and shoulder meet, hands roaming increasingly lower on your body.

“Eijiro, they’re gonna get anxious that we died or something,” you make to leave his lap and open the door, but his arms catch you before you stand.

“I’ve waited years for you. They can wait a few more minutes.”

if you enjoy my writing and would like to support me, you can buy me a coffee on my ko-fi! you can also check out my full masterlist here :)

#mha x reader #bnha x reader #mha x y/n #bnha x you #kirishima x reader #kirishima x you #kirishima x y/n

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gratelove · 8 months ago

Text

You Know You Can’t Resist Me

Tangerine x Reader

Warnings: 18+, p in v, cursing, rough, fighting, blood

You’re set on a mission to retrieve a briefcase for your boss. Little do you know someone else is sent to do the same thing. Someone you have way too much history with. Someone that you know you can’t resist.

You push through the crowded train car, trying to find the package you were sent to retrieve. You were hired by an anonymous billionaire to take out the White Death’s son and bring back a briefcase. You were an assassin and thief for hire, so you never asked many questions. You did the jobs and got paid big. That’s all you ever cared about. The train was way more populated than you had expected, but thankfully you knew what the White Death’s son looked like. Everyone in this business does. The White Death is the most well known criminal there is.

You make it to the next train car, continuing to look through a sea of heads, hoping to spot him. You then see a guy sitting by himself in a booth with large, pink, bug eye glasses on. He is wearing a furry blue coat and looks to be asleep. The glasses are starting to fall off of his face and you see a recognizable tattoo on his right temple.

“Bingo,” you say to yourself and walk over, taking a seat in the spot next to him. You look around to make sure no one is watching. You pull out your dagger and put it to his neck. “Hey, wake up asshole.” The guy makes no movement. “Hey,” you push on his shoulder. The glasses fall off his face to reveal blood pouring down his cheeks from his eyes. “Oh, fuck. Who got to you first?” You ask yourself out loud and put the glasses back on his face. You stand and open the cabin head doors, hoping to find the case in there.

“Looking for this?” You hear a British, male voice behind you. You spin around and whip your dagger to the mysterious man’s neck. Your eyes widen in surprise. “I thought it was you, sweetheart. Almost didn’t recognize you with clothes on.” A smile appears behind that too familiar mustache. You then look to see he has a silver briefcase in his hand.

“Tangerine? What are you doing here? I haven’t seen you since Spain.” You and Tangerine go way back. You’ve done multiple jobs where he just so happens to be after the same thing, but always for different people. You’re never on the same side, always at odds, and somehow you two always end up getting a little too friendly, but not this time. This time your on one missions and one mission only. You won’t let him distract you from that.

“Well, it looks like the same thing as you, love.”

“Seems like it. You still with Lemon?”

“Yeah I am. Actually, he’s in the next train car.” He nods his head in the direction of Lemon.

“Oh good, you can give me the briefcase and then go finish sucking each other’s cocks like you do. Don’t forget to tell him I said hi.” You smile at him, reaching for the item. He pulls it away slightly.

“Not gonna happen.”

“You forget I’m the one with a knife to your neck.” You remind him as you motion your eyes toward the dagger at his throat.

“You forget that we’re in a train car full of people.” Tangerine quickly reminds you.

“Well, I’m not leaving without the briefcase.”

“It looks like you are.” You quickly put your dagger in its sheath on your hip. You squint your eyes in concentration, thinking about your next move. “So, what’s it gonna be, doll?” You smirk and put your hands on his shoulders. You lean in close to his face. “We’re getting to it already, huh? I thought there’d be a little more foreplay.” You let out a small laugh at Tangerine’s words as you lean even closer. You both start tilting your heads in opposite directions, as if to kiss, and as you see his eyes flutter closed you lift your knee right into his groin, using the hands on his shoulders to push him into it. Tangerine groans in pain, falling to his knees on the train floor. You chuckle and grab the briefcase from his hand.

“Is that good enough foreplay for you, sweetheart?” You mock his nickname for you and the look on his face lets you know he is fuming. “Thanks for this by the way.” You pat the case and spin around, jogging through the aisle to reach the next car.

You know he won’t be far behind you and the next car you enter is an empty bar. You turn and look through the small window to see Tangerine is already up and heading your way. You think quickly at where to hide the case. Your eyes dart between cabinets and you decide on one right under the bar top. You slide it behind several alcohol bottles. You grab a bottle of vodka and then swiftly close the door, and just in time for Tangerine to enter the room.

“There you are. What took you so long? You need a drink, baby?” You pout your lip out at him as you pour the clear alcohol into a shot glass and hand it to him. He slaps it out of your hand and it spills on the carpet floor.

“Where is it?” His eyes burns holes through you. He is infuriated, and you find it incredibly hot.

“It’d be no fun if I just told you,” you say and take a shot. The alcohol burns as it runs down your throat and you throw the shot glass to the ground. Tangerine reaches over the bar and puts his hand around your throat, pulling your face close to his.

“Y/N, where is it? I’m not fucking around.” His grip gets tighter around your neck.

“Neither am I.” You rear your head back, and smack it right into his nose. His grip loosens and he stumbles back. He looks up at you and reaches his hand to his face. His gaze turns to his hand and he rubs the red liquid from his nose between his index finger and thumb. Tangerine laughs and wipes the back of his hand across his face, removing the small amount of blood coming from his nose. He suddenly pulls the gun from his waist and points it directly at your forehead. “There he is. I thought you went soft on me, baby.”

“Let’s dance, sweetheart.” The minute those words fall from his mouth you grab the gun and twist his wrist. You leap over the bar and your foot meet his chest. He falls back, but quickly recovers, lunging at you. He takes a swing that you barely dodge. Then another comes that you’re not prepared for. It connects with your mouth and you feel an instant sting to your bottom lip. You have the familiar taste of copper in your mouth and spit. Blood lands on the floor and your head whips toward him. “You done yet, love?” Tangerine asks. He is sweating and his curly brown hair is sticking to his forehead.

“We’re just getting started.” You lunge at him pulling out your dagger. You slice toward him cutting his shirt and exposing his chest. He grabs your arm and puts it against the bar top, hitting your hand against the edge so you’re forced to drop your dagger. He then pushes you until your back hits the train car wall. He has you pinned with his legs pressing against yours and your wrists held tight. You’re both breathing heavy and you feel his warm breath hitting your cheeks. You are flushed and wet from sweat. Tangerine makes eye contact and holds your stare. He leans in so close that your lips are almost touching.

“I love you in this position,” he whispers against your mouth. You try hard to not get hot and bothered by his words. He’s so close and you can’t help but feel the need to kiss him. You smash your lips against his in a rough and hungry kiss. He pushes his tongue into your mouth and you moan. His grip around your wrists loosen and he moves his hands up your arms, down your breasts, and finally stops at the bottom of your skirt. You feel his hands start to run up your thighs and you get the instinct to push him off. You shove his shoulders and he looks at you with confusion.

“No, not this time. This always happens, but not this time, baby. I’m here for one thing only,” you say to him, and really try to stick to the promise you made yourself when you realized he was here. He starts to laugh at your words.

“Come on, sweetheart. You know you want me.” He pushes you up against the wall by your shoulders, and once again has you pinned. You try to push your hands against his chest and it’s a short battle before he has your hands pinned above your head. “Stop resisting. You know you can’t resist me. Just like I know I can’t resist you.” Just his words make you wet and you hate yourself for that. You know he’s right. This happens every time you meet him at a job. You wish you could control yourself, but when he’s around, all you can think about is him fucking you. “Are you gonna be a good girl for me now?” He takes both your wrists in one hand as his other hands finds its way back to your thighs.

“I’m never a good girl,” you say to him and he smirks are your words. His smirk alone makes you drip.

“I know, sweetheart. That’s my favorite thing about you.” He breathes as he runs his fingers over your clit through your panties. You shutter at the feeling and a distant sensation tingles through your thighs. He pulls your underwear to the side and runs his index finger between your folds. “You’re already so wet for me. I knew you wanted me,” he breathes. He finds your entrance and slowly pushes two fingers inside you. You gasp and spread your legs open so he has better access. He starts by slowly pumping his fingers in and out of you. You throw your head back against the wall and your eyes flutter shut. He picks up the pace and you feel your legs start to get shaky. The sensation suddenly stops and you’re lifted up off the ground. He’s carrying you over to a booth. He sets you down on the edge and gets on his knees. He pushes your legs open by your knees and rips your panties down your legs. “Oh my god,” he whispers and you look at him staring between your legs in awe. He licks his lips and wraps his arms under your thighs, getting a tight grip on your body. He lowers his face in between your legs and you feel his warm tongue run down your center. You shiver at the feeling. His tongue starts to move faster up and down you. He does this several times before stopping at your clit. He pushes two fingers, roughly back into you and takes your clit between his teeth. You moan loudly as his tongue swirls around your sweet spot. Chills rush up and down your body. You can’t help but squirm as the sensation intensifies.

“Oh my fucking god,” you scream and grab handfuls of his curls. You tug on his hair and his grip tightens around your thighs in attempt to hold you still. “Tan, I’m gonna cum. Oh my fucking god, I’m gonna cum.” You throw your head against the seat as your eyes roll back in pleasure. You feel a wave of release wash over you. Tangerine laps up your juice. He lifts his head, flicking his hair back from his face.

“God, you are so fucking sexy, sweetheart.” He wipes his mouth. You lift yourself up and reach for the zipper of his pants and waist no time pulling them down. You see him bulging through his boxers, and are eager to feel him inside you. You pull those down swiftly and he grabs your wrists, pulling you up. He hoists you up onto one of the tables. His large hands wrap around your hips and he lines himself up with your entrance. You feel him slowly enter you and you can’t hold back the moan that comes out as he stretches you. You wince a little as he fully enters you. “You okay, love?” He stops moving. You bite your bottom lip.

“Mmhm,” you nod. He grabs your face, crashing his lips into yours. You being to move in sync and he slowly pulls out of you, and then shoves back in. You gasp mid kiss and Tangerine rests his forehead against your. You can feel his wet hair against your just as wet forehead. He repeats the motion again, making you moan louder. You throw your arms around his neck. He picks up pace and starts pumping into you. Your nails dig into his back and he goes deeper and harder with every thrust.

“You feel so tight.” He groans and grips your waist again, squeezing hard. Those words make you even more hungry for him, if that’s even possible. You wrap your legs tightly around his waist as he pounds into you. Your moans soon become screams of pleasure. Your whole body is numb with sensation and you dig your nails deeper into his skin. “God, you’re gonna make me cum.” He groans into your neck and starts to suck on your sensitive skin. You bite his shoulder to try to suppress the overwhelming sensation. This makes him let out a loud moan. “Fuck, I’m gonna cum.” He warns and his pumps pick up pace.

“Fuck baby, I’m gonna cum too.” You moan in his ear. His head is thrown back with one final thrust and he suddenly pulls out. He cums onto your bare thighs and groans, his upper half falling limp on top of you. You both are a mess of heavy breathing and sweat for a pause. Tangerine then lifts himself up, placing an arm on either side of you.

“That was fucking amazing,” he says and you giggle.

“Yes it fucking was.” He leans in and gives you a long kiss.

“God, I needed this.” You lean in and give him another kiss in the lips. You don’t know the next time you will see him after this, so you take in what you can.

“You know, once I catch my breath I’m gonna kick your ass. That briefcase is still mine.” You smirk at him. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear and smiles at you.

“We’ll see about that.”

#bullet train #tangerine #tangerine fanfiction #tangerine fanfic #aaron taylor johnson #Aaron Taylor Johnson fanfiction #Aaron Taylor Johnson smut #tangerine smut #bullet train fanfic

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myveryownfanfiction · 1 year ago

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18+ MINORS AND THOSE WITHOUT AGE IN BIO DNI

tags: @eclecticwildflowers, @illiana-mystery

warnings: swearing, mention of scary movies, johns dad is abusive

I pulled my blanket up a little more as I tossed another kernel into my mouth. My room was only lit by the tv screen and the neon sign hanging in the corner of my room. Jumping a little at something that happened on the tv, I let out a quiet laugh at myself. There was a knock at my window that had me jump and nearly upend the bowl of popcorn in my lap.

“John!” I exclaimed as I went to open the window. He smiled at me as he started to climb through. “You asshole!” I smacked his arm and John rubbed it, scrunching up his nose playfully and muttering in fake pain.

“Nice to see you too babe.” He grumbled as he climbed onto my bed, grabbing some popcorn. He watched me as he ate, raising an eyebrow and snickering when I finally gave up glaring at him and climbed onto the bed next to him. “Whatcha watching?”

“some horror movie that was on.” I shrugged. John nodded as he picked his arm up so I could curl up next to him. “I can change it if you want…” I jumped as John tightened his grip on me.

“no it’s alright.” He said before he kissed my cheek. “As long as you are alright with it.” His eyes scanned my face as I jolted again, hand flying out to grab johns flannel. He nodded and reached over to my nightstand for the remote. “Right. Ok. We’re going to find something else to watch.” I buried my head in his shoulder as the movie got more gory. John rubbed my back as he flipped through the channels to try to find something that wasn’t a horror movie. “Damn October. Ok. Alright. It’s animated but I mean.” He shrugged and I peaked out from my hiding spot.

“oh. Yeah. That’s good. You’ll hate it.” I said with a small laugh. John kissed my forehead and rubbed my back again.

“then it’s perfect.” John settled against me and pulled the popcorn bowl into his lap as we settled in to watch.

“not to be…” I turned to look at John and shrugged. “But why are you here?”

“my dad.” John said, eyes still trained on the screen. “I’m going to have a bruise on my arm and stomach tomorrow by the way. Don’t want to wake up and see you staring at it.” Johns eyes flicked over to mine for a second before going back to the screen. “Detention again Saturday. Meeting up with Allison I think. Everyone is going to meet up at that pizza place on Irving if you wanna go.” I nodded and turned back to the tv.

“what did you do this time?” I asked with a small laugh. John chuckled and tilted the popcorn bowl towards me.

“insulted Vernon’s wardrobe again. And his office.” I sat back to look at John. He smiled at me.

“his office?” I asked, John nodded with a smirk.

“Yeah. His design choices.” I cocked my head and John leaned forward. “Oh come on. Don’t tell me you never noticed the sports illustrated swimsuit calendar?” I thought for a second before shaking my head. “He’s got one. I’m gonna steal it Saturday.”

“really John? And risk another detention?” I asked.

“of course. Something like that has no right being out in the open. It should be in a locker. Like every other self respecting high schooler has it.” I laughed and fell back against John. He wrapped his arms around me and laughed with me.

“ok. Ok. Just try not to get caught.” I asked, knowing that he would still get caught no matter what he did.

“I can’t make promises sweets.” John responded. “But I’ll do my best.” We settled back against each other and enjoyed the rest of the movie.

#john bender fanfic #john bender imagine #john bender x reader #john bender fanfiction #john bender #judd nelson #judd nelson imagine #judd nelson fanfiction #judd nelson fanfic #judd Nelson x reader

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iridescentpull · 10 months ago

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I'm working on a full transcription for Fit & Pac's secret conversation during their date and I've already covered half of it. Here are some of my favorite bits! (the full transcription should come out tomorrow if everything goes well, so fingers crossed!)

Fit: Um, so… This is… So remember the day I told you, like, Agent 18 and Foolish?

Pac: Yeah, they are kinda like something? The man with the uplifted pants.

Fit: That was– that was a test to see if you could keep a secret and you passed– you CAN keep a secret, ‘cause I didn’t hear anything else from that from anyone else on the island. Um.. so..

Pac: Hmm.

Fit: So… If I tell you about this, promise you will not tell anyone?

Pac: *stutters* No– yeah, yeah, no– how can I say this? –uh, my mouth is a rock– no, that’s not the word, that’s not the slang, uh *sigh* I don’t know, sorry, but I won’t tell anyone, you know? T-That’s a secret I will keep for my life, you know? It’s gonna go with me in my coffin, you know? I’m gonna keep it– I’m sorry.

Fit: Okay… okay, ‘cause I want you to know once I tell you this, there’s no going back.

Pac: Really? But, like– this sounds like really bad stuff, like, really bad. Like, a super secret-secret I can’t tell anyone? I don’t know, that sounds… I’m scared

Fit: Me too.

Pac: O-Oh… Oh my God.

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

Fit: I was sent to Quesadilla Island for a very specific purpose, yes.

Pac: Which- Which purpose it is?

Fit: So I made a deal with someone that I would come to Quesadilla Island and obtain the player data of everyone here. And in return, I’d get paid a lot of money. But, I- I… since being on the island, though, I didn’t expect to get attached to anyone like, Ramon, or you… um, and my boss gave me one year to complete my mission of obtaining all of this player data, um

Pac: So… So you’re gonna leave… You’re gonna leave.

Fit: Well, here’s the thing, Pac– even if I complete the mission, I- I’m not leaving. Because… *stutters* I-I, I know Quesadilla Island is not exactly the best place in the world, like– we’re stuck here and the Federation are assholes but like, I care about the people on this island, like you, Ramon– we have all our friends like Mike, Philza, you know? Like– Tubbo. It’s just, I’m not planning on– even if I complete the mission, I’m not planning on leaving.

Pac: No, that’s– that’s good to hear, you know Fit? You are very important to me as well as Ramon, Richarlyson, Mike, all my family here; and it’s good to know that you got my back, and I also have yours for anything you need…. But *stutters* I’m also scared, like– you made a deal with someone else? Like, it’s not related to the Federation? And, like, why do you need to handle the player’s datas, like, what’s up with the player data? Are there some hidden secrets? And you also have to deliver my player data as well?

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

Pac: Yeah, uh-huh? That’s him? You’ve been working for the Naked Slenderman?

Fit: *laughs* No, no, no– he has a very similar appearance to that. He’s like all white, but like… it’s almost like he’s hiding what his true form is. Everything’s a secret with my boss, everything’s a secret

Pac: You are kinda like mysterious too… I noticed, you know? You don’t talk much about your life, or about your goals. So it’s really nice for me to hear that from you. You know what I’m trying to say?

Fit: No, I understand. Yeah, no– I appreciate that.

Pac: You kinda trust on me, so I think that this is really serious.

Fit: Thank you–

Pac: That is something that I will remember all my life, that you trust me.

Fit: *laughs* I’m glad Pac. But listen– when I, the reason I said that you to keep this a secret is… If the Federation finds out, they’ll kill me. If the Rebellion finds out, they’ll probably also kill me! So that’s why–

Pac: Oh my God the Rebellion!

Fit: It’s, yeah, so like- but–

Pac: Amiga!

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

Pac: Do you– Do you have my player data?

Fit: No. I think I–

Pac: W-Well, can I hand out to you– can I hand you my player data?

Fit: *laughs in disbelief* Well! Well that–

Pac: Can I? Fit: –that would certainly make it easier! But um… I think– I don’t know, my boss asked me for more than just that; the emotions of people, I don’t know what he meant by that, but like– how, how we react to things on the island. Like, all the things we go through, like– pain, our joy...

#fitpac #qsmp #qsmp transcriptions #qsmp fit #qsmp pac #pactw #fitmc #hideduo #aynee rambles

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beforeimdeceased · 10 months ago

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A GIRL IS MISSING: LET THE DEAD BURY THE DEAD ❄️🧣⚰️

synopsis: someone left behind a beautiful corpse.

a/n: finally putting the mystery/thriller into this mystery/thriller fanfic wooo! if you wanna set the tone while reading: i listen to a lot of ethel cain and princess chelsea while writing this series!

masterlist

walking over to them felt like a juvenile attempt at making friends. your body clenched. sweat dripping down your neck and building at your hairline. teeth making crescents into the sides of your tongue. you appear before the three grievers and struggle between offering a smile or a handshake or both. you settle for an awkward wave. ellie is too busy comforting abby and they don’t notice you, but jesse does. he gives you a simple nod.

it’s interesting being this close to them. watching their dynamic. abby is completely torn in the way you’d imagine ellie should be. ellie is frowning but in the way you’d imagine jesse might be. jesse has the tear streaks you thought ellie would have. you take a deep breath, awaiting maria’s further instructions.

“alright and team 4,” she pauses looking over at their sad faces. “we’re going to have you guys search near the creek.”

you remember playing by that creek. using the water for mud pies and dirtying up your hands and clothes. coming home and getting lectured about it. getting asked about the stains at school. you were an explorer, an adventurer, and a creative out there. you’d hoped that time didn’t make all that wash away.

jesse drove. ellie took the passenger’s seat, fingers fiddling with a ring. a cursive letter d etched into a heart on top of it. abby sat in the back with you, her head looking outside the window. watching the life pass by.

you couldn’t stop yourself from trying to figure them out. which one was the last to see her? what did they talk about? what did she say? do any of them think she’s alive? are any of them hiding something? do they know where she is? did they kill her? are they planning on killing you now because they can tell you’re figuring them out?

“i can’t do this sober.” ellie breaks you out of your thoughts. you realize that you’ve already arrived at the creek. jesse pops open his glove box and pulls out a flask. your stomach sinks a bit, you feel guilty for being accusatory. even if it’s just in your head.

“one sip, each of us gets one,” he takes his. “but we need our heads on straight if we’re going to find her.” jesse hands it to ellie. she looks at him, a real mean piercing gaze. something crude on her tongue? she puts the flask to her lips and takes a sip, then holds her hand out back towards you.

you can’t refuse, it’d be rude. so you take it and take a sip, then you look over at abby. you’re scared to touch her. to scare her. to make her start crying again after she’s finally calmed down. it’s almost as if ellie can read your mind, she calls out abby’s name.

“what is it? oh, we’re already here? i zoned out.” she looks away from the window and you hold the flask out in front of her. jesse looks at her through his rearview mirror. “one sip. and make sure you’re wearing your gloves, you don’t need anymore bruises on your hands.”

she takes a sip. “because people get funny ideas?” she raises her eyebrows. saying it like it’s something we’re all supposed to know the answer to. like it’s a stupid question. jesse shakes his head. “no, because i care about you. but, you make a good point.”

“you’ve just been crying a lot.” ellie chimes up. “i thought you would’ve run dry yesterday, but you’re still crying.”

your eyes widen as you listen to them. attempting to decipher what all of this means. if what you were thinking earlier was true. if these would be your last moments alive, because now you certainly knew too much.

abby looks over at you. “do i cry too much? wouldn’t anyone cry this much if someone they cared about was gone?”

you open your mouth to speak but you’re interrupted. “you say that like she’s not gonna come back.” jesse grips the steering wheel.

“she didn’t fucking run away.” ellie scoffs, rolling her eyes. “cmon let’s go before we lose daylight.”

as you leave the car, you take a deep breath. the tension in that moment was rigid. suffocating. why were they arguing? is that normal? you’d never been alone with these three. you’d barely even had a conversation long enough to remember. you didn’t know these people. you didn’t know what you’d gotten yourself into by volunteering. you didn’t know what was going to happen at this creek.

“if we split up, we’ll cover more ground. do you know the creek well?”

it takes a moment before you realize jesse is talking to you. you nod, and he looks at ellie. “alright ellie, you go with her. i’ll go with abby. let’s meet back here in twenty minutes. i’m serious about that too, a storm’s coming.”

“well we never would’ve known, weather man. thank you.” ellie trudges towards you, wrapping her scarf around her face. jesse rolls his eyes before walking in the opposite direction with abby. you look over at ellie before gesturing your head forwards. you start walking ahead of her hearing her boots hit the snow behind you. then she speeds up and walks next to you. sniffling.

“didn’t you think abby was being weird back there in the car?” she starts. “i mean, it seems to me like she thinks i know something. like i’m hiding something because i’m not bursting into fucking tears every three seconds but…it’s not like i’m not sad. fuck.”

you nod along, pulling a flashlight out to get a better look at the ground. at any possible fresh track marks in the snow.

“i’m angry, at myself mostly. i’m fucking…scared. i miss my girlfriend.”

she looks over at you, and you nod. you don’t say anything you just nod. you let her know she’s understood.

the crack of a tree branch is heard closer to the deeper end of the forest. closer to the frozen over creek. you look at each other once before walking towards it. stomping on in the snow while periodically wiping at your nose.

when you reach where you can guess the sound came from, you hand ellie the flashlight. “here, hold it towards the water. there could be something around here.”

she does as you ask, holding it still so you can look. in all honesty, you were losing hope and just trying to pass the minutes by. it was fucking freezing, and from what you’d learned at the after-search meetings, dina was scared of this part of the woods. she wouldn’t come through here for a million dollars, jesse’s words verbatim.

“you know the police won’t even help out? they don’t think she’s missing. maria’s the only adult in this town who gives a fuck.” ellie chimes up as you wipe some snow off of a rock. you look back towards her, cough up into the icy air, then stand. “what about your uncle? isnt he on the force.”

she looks away for a moment. even though you can’t see her frowning you can tell from the sadness in her eyes. “i don’t wanna talk about it-“

a horrific and tragic scream is heard in the distance. the scream of a young woman. you both turn your heads towards it, then each other, before running to the commotion. it takes two minutes to get through the barren woods. ellie tripped once, and you twice, before coming across jesse and abby. abby is wailing, worse than she was in the church. worse than you’d ever seen her. you can almost hear ellie’s heart stop.

“els don’t look.” jesse grabs her before she can reach the scene. she’s beating against him with her hands, cursing harsh under the scarf. “what is it jesse? tell me what is it? what the fuck is going on?” her voice cracks and tears begin to fall as she falls into him.

you walk past abby, who’s on the ground holding her stomach. she pulls her scarf off and runs behind a tree. you can hear her throwing up. throwing up and crying.

you could’ve never guessed that you’d be seeing what you were right now. not in a million years. a bloody young woman who looked like she’d been ripped in half by some heinous creature. her insides on full display for you. her skin discolored. and the smell, it was god awful. and in what you could only guess was her hands, a heart necklace with the letter e in cursive etched into the front.

the worst part was that, from what you could make out, this was not dina. dina didn’t have the tattoos these remains had. dina didn’t have green eyes. so who the hell is this, and how did she get dina’s necklace?

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btsbling · 10 months ago

Text

💋 | “May I have this dance?”

💋 | Pairing: Jungkook x reader

💋 | Genre: Angst to fluff

————————————————————————————

Every time his gaze wanders towards her. Your heart clenches, eyes shift away in sadness and your whole body slumps.

he comes in waves. Your heart pounds hard against your chest whenever he smiles at you, a rarity to behold. But in the end, you’re always reminded of the fact that he retreats to her.

You’re reminded of the fact that his heart, goes to her.

Not you.

You weren’t aware of the reason, but you knew that his heart belonged to her.

Your senior, whose grades were astounding unlike yours. She has the perfect body, hair and voice, it wasn’t shocking that the person he fell for would be someone who is as attractive as he is

But funny how you realise where his eyes wander.

but don’t realise how his heart points to you.

You’re sure, 100% sure he hates you. You and Jungkook have known each other since day one of college. It has never been the same

It was never peaceful between the two of you, either the frosty ice-cold glares or the heated bickering.

There were a few times you’ve wanted to murder that one but at the same time there were instances where he made you heart beat a hundred times faster

there were a few things to note about Jeon Jungkook

1. He’s annoying

2. Head over heels for his senior

3. hella attractive

4. he’s annoying

5. should not make your heart race but somehow still manages to find a way to do so

You twirled the sparkling champagne in your grasp. You should’ve never come.

you couldn’t understand why. Why of all men you had to fall for him.

The man with gorgeous slick black hair, thick pink lips, adorable bunny smile and a voice that could bring anyone to their knees.

The only reasonable explanation you could count on; Life works in mysterious ways and the heart longs for the things it can’t get.

So here you are, sitting at the corner bar of the ballroom, your stilettos long forgotten, strewn on the floor below your barstool. Your hair was wavy and styled to perfection and your dress complimented your natural curves.

But, as always, he would only spare you a glance before rushing you along to the ball, his heart beating excitedly for another individual.

“Y/n hurry it up, we’re gonna be late” he says, checking his watch. He was anxious. You could feel it, literally. Anxious to see her

You sighed, quickly grabbing your things but paused as you felt him slide his coat over your shoulders.

“it’s going to be cold silly” that was all he said before he left the door first.

It was, stupid, and embarrassing but you couldn’t help but snuggle further into his coat, enjoying the scent of his cologne and it’s warmth.

But you realised, how these things only lasted for a few minutes, and these are the things he do, not for you but out of his goodwill.

When you arrived to the destination, you were immediately bombarded with compliments from the rest of his friends, them not being familiar to the sight of you in a formal dress.

You blushed as they greeted you with hugs and complimented you on your dress.

And you could’ve sworn the hold that jungkook had on your waist, tightened.

But as she walked in, his hand slipped away, immediately going to her and leaving you behind.

You actually know her, the senior that jungkook was definitely in love with. She was beautiful and kindhearted, even helping you with some unclear topics since she was a year above you. You greeted her with a smile and let the others welcome her.

and as he talked to her, you could see how happy he was and how you would never be able to make him as happy as she could.

It was easy to slip away, not bothering to tell anyone. You found the bar and grabbed a champagne flute before exploring the place.

It was a charity event that your university had collaborated with and most of the students were invited.

It was magnificent to say the least.

Sipping on your champagne, you leaned on the balcony as you stared at the starry sky. How you wish upon a star, that you could be the girl he was in love with, the girl who could make him smile brightly.

You smiled sadly at the sky, regretting coming to this event in the first place

“Hey” someone called out

you whipped behind to find Namjoon, holding a similar flute.

“Oppa” you smiled before standing straight and greeting him again.

“What are you doing alone out here y/n, the rest are inside chilling” he asked you

Namjoon has always been a insightful senior whom, in many instances, literally blessed you with the ability to pass your exams.

You shook your head, “nah, just...not really feeling it” you told him truthfully. You couldn’t bare, watching him gush over her.

“It’s because of kook isn’t it?” he glanced at you. “You know, he looks at her with admiration. He looks at another girl with eyes filled with love”

you snorted, shaking your head.

“Thanks oppa, but it’s hard to believe that’s true” you whispered

even if it was true, the possibility of him ever harbouring feelings for you would be a big fat zero.

“My dear, stubborn junior, he should know his limits, i mean i am dating said senior” now that made you choke slightly and your eyes to widen.

Namjoon pat you gently while chuckling.

“You’ll see, soon enough when he decides to actually man the fuck up” Namjoon said while shaking his head and snickering

you were confused by his response but decided to remain silent. you gave him a half-hearted smile in slight respect and then looked out into the scenery

However much you wanted to jump out of the balcony, scale the wall like a fucking parkour master and race home, the view in front of you was worth not accidentally breaking your bones.

The sun had set hours ago, giving way to a serene and beautiful night sky. The moon gleamed gorgeously and the stars filled the blank, dark canvas, and the stars sparkled like diamonds.

You stared at the sky above you, wishing the stars and moon would listen to your wish

i wished he looked at me the same way he looks at her

“There you are, i was- hyung” Jungkook entered, stopping when he saw the two of you. his eyes narrowed, and even thought you don’t notice, his hands clenched together into tight fists, teeth clenching together.

“that’s my cue, to my two stupidly idiotic juniors, i hope you find your way.” Namjoon announces as he stands up, adjusts his tie and head back to the main hall. “aka jungkook just tell her” he shouts as he starts running

immediately a blush paints the colours of Jungkook’s face, and he immediately shouts back, “Yah, hyung!” eyes filled with panic and slight annoyance.

At this point you were hella confused. The cool breeze caused the trees to sway and rustle and you immediately felt goosebumps forming on your arms. Cursing yourself for not bringing a coat or something of that sort, you desperately rub your arms up and down in hopes of minimal warmth.

You felt his suit drape across your shoulders, and Jungkook huffs while taking you into his arms and cuddling your face into his chest. immediately his warmth envelopes you and his scent makes you blush and push your face further into his chest.

Just enjoy it for a while

Jungkook slightly rocks the two of you together making you giggle. “dance with me” he says, eyes filled with something you called unfamiliarity. You but your lip and you feel your face get hotter with embarrassment, “i-i don’t know how to dance” you whisper, eyes not meeting his. Damnit you couldn’t even dance, she probably knows how to

Jungkook chuckles as he tilts your chin up, placing his hand on your cheeks. This was seriously the first time he had ever showed this much “affection” to you, it was as if the Jungkook who bickered with you, literally sticking his tongue out at you in an argument had been buried

“step on my shoes y/n” you widened your eyes at his words. and couldn’t help yourself when you muttered out, “i’m sorry what?”

Jungkook groans and tightened his hold on you, his arms resting on your waist. “Step on my shoes and i’m not repeating it”

“b-but i’m”

“y/n” he says softly. Something shines through his eyes, his stare makes your heart race faster in your chest. You step lightly on his shoes, as he smiled down at you and starts to move.

Jungkook guides you literally, as the two of you dance the the soft melody of the band playing in the main banquet, under the gleam of the moon.

You giggle, loving the moment and Jungkook flashes you a grin that takes your breath away.

You smile, though sadly, thinking about the fact that after this, the two of you would go back to being friends? sorta enemies? you’re not even sure

but you cherished the moment you spent with him, no matter how painful your heart cries at the fact that you’ll never be his.

“y/n”

“hmm?” you hum, resting your head on his chest, his neck resting on your head.

“i have something to tell you”

“yeah?” you mumble absentmindedly loving the warmth his body is emitting

“y/n look at me”

this was when you realise, what his eyes was trying to convey.

love

“you know how i said i would never like someone like you” his said without any hesitation

Your heart twists and already your eyes stung with tears you tried to hide as you looked down at your shoes

“yeah?” you whisper painfully

he once again tilt your head to look at his eyes. His beautiful fucking eyes.

“the reason is because i’ve already fallen in love with someone like you”

your eyes widen and you open your mouth to reply but he takes the opportunity to kiss you on the lips. Holy smokes

his hands gently pushes your neck closed towards him, deepening the kiss as your hands slid up his back, intertwining at his neck. Your heart was ready to leap out of home base and your swear your knees was going to fail you at any given moment.

He pulled away, leaning his forehead against yours. You relished in the moment, as he smiles brightly.

#jungkook x reader fanfic #jungkook x reader fluff #bts jungkook #jeon jungkook

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floralpascal · 1 year ago

Note

Hiii I love you work of Frankie <3 a request if you’re up for it, since I love your writing style and how you present him hehe

Something inspired by Billie’s Bossa Nova lines:

“You better lock your phone,

And look at me when we’re alone,

Won’t take a lot to get you going,

I’m sorry if it’s torture though,

I know I know”

Idk I see a shy Frankie and reader tilting his face towards her with her finger and whispering in his ear and sksksk go crazy please

You're an absolute genius for this idea! I love this song sooo much and my mind went wild with incorporating it into the story. I absolutely did not expect it to take this long or to write this much when I started. I also didn't expect this to turn into smut but here we are! I hope you like it!!

Bossa Nova

Summary: You and Frankie are both head-over-heels for each other... only neither of you realize the other is interested. When Santi sets you both up with mystery dates, you're both surprised to find that Santi has set you up with each other.

Pairing: Frankie Morales x f!reader

Word Count: 6.3k

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Warnings: kissing, fingering, protected p-in-v sex, creampie

You shouldn’t have told Santi about it. You should’ve just kept your mouth shut. But how were you supposed to know that your vent session would lead to this?

The crux of the issue was that your dating life was beyond fruitless. Date after date, it always went the same. Either the spark wasn’t there, the conversation was as easy as pulling teeth, or the guy wouldn’t get off his damn phone long enough to genuinely interact with you. It had left you feeling more than a little frustrated. Had every good guy already been snatched up and now all you had to pick from were the leftovers?

Or was it you? Was it the fact that the only guy you wanted to go on a date with was Santi’s best friend? You had been introduced to Frankie at one of Santi’s infamous cookouts. The same night that Santi had accidentally burnt your hamburgers to a crisp, you had met the sweetest man in the world. He had been quiet back then, the conversation a bit awkward. But after multiple nights out with Frankie, Santi, and the Miller brothers, you had slowly gotten to know Frankie better. And damn it he was driving you insane. Despite how down bad you were for him, it never went anywhere.

Of course the one guy you wanted didn’t feel the same.

“There’s just no single guy out there who actually wants to talk,” you lamented to your friend, Santi, one day. You hadn’t meant to rant like this when you had invited him over for dinner so the two of you could catch up. But after he asked how your last date had gone, a quizzical eyebrow raised from across the kitchen table, you hadn’t been able to stop from telling him. You continued, “No one even seems to care to be on the date at all. It’s like they don’t have anything better to do, so going on a date with me is their next best option, you know?”

Santi — who had been listening to your rant sympathetically for about five minutes — suddenly scrunched his eyebrows before a scheming smile slowly spread across his lips.

You knew that look from a mile away.

“No, no, no!” You warned preemptively. “Whatever crazy idea you just had: no.”

“What if I said I knew a great guy who’s single and thoughtful and would be perfect for you?”

You sighed, rolling your eyes. Of course he would try to set you up. “Santi, no. I appreciate it but I’m done with the dating scene. I’ve embarrassed myself enough. I give up.”

He shook his head, that annoying grin still plastered to his face as he pointed his fork at you. “Nope, no quitter talk. I’m telling you, you’ll love this guy. I can’t believe I never realized how perfect you’d be for each other before now!”

“Santi-”

“Uh-uh. This is happening. You’re free on Friday, right? You’re going on a date with him. It’s a crime that you haven’t already.”

“What’s his name?” You asked. “You haven’t even said who it is.”

Santi shook his head again, saying, “That’s gonna be a surprise.”

You tried to explain that you were over the disappointment of dating and that going out with a mystery guy didn’t sound much more promising than any of your past dates. But it didn’t matter. Santi had set his mind on it.

“He’s been having bad luck on dates just like you have,” he explained as he whipped out his phone, presumably sending a text to the guy about this arrangement.

“Santi, seriously, I don’t know about this…”

“What’s the matter?”

“Usually when dates go bad, the one bright side is that I know I’ll never see the guy again. I don’t know him or anyone else that knows him, so there won’t be any fallout when things go bad. Won’t it be weird for us and you if things don’t go well?”

He shook his head with decisive confidence before clicking his phone off. “That’s the thing, it won’t go badly. I’m telling you, it’ll be the best date of your life. You’ve got to trust me on this. It’s gonna be great.”

You looked at the ceiling, mulling this all over as you tapped the edge of your empty plate. Almost completely fed up with the idea of dating, the last thing you wanted was another failed date. But Santi was dead-set on it and seemed to truly believe it was something that could work. And simply waiting for love to come your way was getting both boring and disheartening.

After considering everything for a moment, you asked, “He’s not going to be some murderous creep, right?”

Santi beamed, seemingly taking your question as confirmation that you were interested in the date. “Nah, you’ll love him. I trust him with my life.”

You raised an eyebrow. Santi wasn’t the kind of man who said that he trusted someone with his life unless he really meant it.

Bing!

Santi looked down at his phone before smiling up at you again. “He’s in. How does Friday at seven sound?”

“I said no.”

Santi had been on Frankie’s ass for days now. When Frankie had gotten that text from him a few days ago — You down for a date with a nice, cute friend of mine? — he hadn’t known the headache that would ensue when he turned the offer down. Santi refused to tell him who the date was with, asserting that he would love the mystery woman. Unsatisfied with Frankie’s rejection, Santi had hounded him every day since, even going so far as to show up at his house today out of the blue. Frankie had heaved a long-suffered sigh when he saw Santi’s red Jeep pull up his driveway.

“Come on, Fish,” Santi groaned, exasperatedly following Frankie around his dimly lit garage as he worked on his truck. “She’s pretty, she’s funny, she’s bold. I’m telling you, you’ll both hit it off.”

Frankie merely sighed as he sifted around his toolbox for a socket. He hadn’t had much luck in the dating department for years. Either the woman he was with didn’t seem to be that interested in him or it got too awkward as the conversation petered out. The best stories he had were Army stories, but those didn’t tend to go over well with dates. He was a man who was rough around the edges, simple, middle aged, and quieter than most. In short, he didn’t think he was much for anyone to get excited about anyways. He wasn’t the kind of guy that wowed someone on a blind date.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to go on the date, it was the fact that he wanted more than a date. He wanted something real. A love that gripped his soul, that left him spinning, that left him losing his bearings. Maybe he wasn’t a sentimental man, but he was a bit of a hopeless romantic at heart. He just didn’t think that any of that stuff was ever meant for him, and that made every failed date even more painful.

In reality, Frankie hated how he felt after every failed date. It tanked his self-esteem more than he cared to admit. He didn’t think he could take it again. It didn’t help that — when it came to dating — Frankie was on the shyer side. Though, maybe that had something to do with the whole self-esteem issue, too. At one point in his life, he had been much more confident in the dating area. However, after a few decades, a couple of failed serious relationships, and plenty of terrible dates, that confidence was quickly waning.

What made it worse was that the woman he really wanted was so unattainable it hurt. Every time he saw you at one of Santi’s cookouts or a night out at the bars, he felt that familiar pang in his chest. You were the opposite of Frankie, so confident and funny and gorgeous. Every time your hand brushed over his arm his heart almost gave out. Every time you smiled, he couldn’t look away. When you were in the room, you were the center of his attention, no matter how hard he tried to pay attention to anything else. The fact was that no other woman on any date had ever made him feel like you did. No other woman was ever you.

It was that thought that had caused him to tell Santi no. He was sure the mystery woman was pretty and funny and whatever else Santi said, but the fact of the matter was that she wasn’t you. It didn’t matter that you didn’t seem to be interested in Frankie like that, he had fallen for you all the same. And now he couldn’t seem to be interested in anyone else.

“What else do I have to say, man?” Santi questioned, practically pleading as Frankie finally closed his hand around the cool metal of the socket he had been looking for.

“Nothing,” Frankie responded, trying not to sound as down as he felt. “It’ll end just like all the others. I’m just not interested.”

He hated to let down his best friend, especially when he seemed so invested in this idea, but it was just too much for Frankie. After his last date, he had deleted all the dating apps from his phone and called it quits. He hadn’t told Santi this both because of how lame he would sound and because he knew that he would try to set him up exactly like this. Santi, being as extroverted as he was, knew a lot of women and once he started setting Frankie up, he wouldn’t stop until Frankie found someone.

What Santi didn’t understand was that he had already fucked up Frankie’s love life enough when he introduced him to you that first night on his back deck. From that moment on, Frankie hadn’t been interested in anyone else. Whoever had come up with the term falling in love had been right because meeting you had felt almost exactly like a helicopter going down in a tailspin. One second, all was fine. The next, he was hurtling toward the ground.

He couldn’t tell Santi that he was madly in love with you either. It would only make things even worse when Santi inevitably meddled. Frankie didn’t think he would survive embarrassment like that, especially when you were much too good for him. Like there was any way in hell you felt the same as he did.

“You’re both so goddamn stubborn,” Santi groaned to himself before taking a breath and pressing at his brow. Frankie slid underneath his truck again and started to work. For a moment, he actually thought he had won this dispute, Santi uncharacteristically quiet as he leaned against the old frame of the truck. But after a beat of silence, Santi sighed and called pointedly, “You know what? It doesn’t matter. I’ve already told her you’ll meet her at seven tonight.”

Without thinking, Frankie leaned up and cried, “You what-?” before promptly smacking his head against the metal above him. He scooted out from under the truck, holding his head and cursing. When he found that he didn’t have any serious injury, he trained his fury on Santi again. “Dude? Seriously?”

Santi, who was holding back from laughing at Frankie’s outburst, simply put his hands up. “I knew you were gonna pull this shit, so I told her you’d already said yes.”

A barrage of questions ran through his mind. Why would you do that? Why didn’t you mention that at the start? How do I get out of this now? However the only question he was able to get out was, “What the fuck, man?”

“You’ve gotta trust me on this one, Fish! You can’t back out now.”

Frankie grumbled, “I never even agreed to be in this.”

Santi simply continued on, seemingly ignoring him at this point. “It’s at that one grill place on the West side of town that Benny likes. You still have that shirt you wore to Benny’s birthday dinner? Wear that one. It’s not too formal but it looks good.”

“Fine. Fine. I’ll do it. But when this goes sideways, it’s on you.”

“When this goes perfectly,” Santi countered, “you better make me best man at the wedding.”

Frankie didn’t know how to tell him that he’d be lucky to even make it through the date, let alone get to anything resembling a relationship.

“You’re really gonna do it?” Santi asked skeptically. “You’re not lying?”

Frankie sighed as he defeatedly tossed his socket back into the open toolbox, letting it loudly clang against the contents of the box. It wasn’t like he had much of a choice in this situation. “Yeah, I’ll do it.”

Santi beamed before clapping him on the shoulder. “You’re gonna thank me for this tomorrow.”

“Sure,” Frankie replied, sarcasm dripping from the word. If anything, he thought he would be embarrassed beyond belief tomorrow after Santi would inevitably ask how it went.

Fuck. Frankie didn’t think he had it in him to go through all the disappointment again. Much less to have his best friend see it.

As Santi went to leave, he yelled over his shoulder, “Oh, and she’s not scared away by Army stories either. I’ve already told her plenty.”

Frankie’s stomach sank. “You didn’t tell her about the time I was drunk in Texas, did you?”

Santi only gave him an evil smile as he continued to back away, shrugging. “She thought it was funny.”

Later that night, Frankie sat at a table at Nino’s Bar & Grill, clad in the blue button-down Santi insisted he wear as he anxiously waited for his mystery date to arrive. In the hours since Santi had first roped him into this date, the man had never stopped texting him about her, all the while keeping her identity a secret. His insistence that this would be the best date ever had Frankie somewhat dreading the ultimate letdown that was coming.

Hell, she was already ten minutes late. Maybe, he thought, she had already spared him from the date by standing him up. It certainly wouldn’t be the worst end to a date that he’d ever had.

Suddenly, a text came through from Santi. Frankie stared at it, reading it again and again but it was just as confusing every time.

Did you seriously think I hadn’t noticed the way you look at her?

After a second, he sent back a simple: What??

He sighed as he looked at his watch again. Maybe he should just go home, crack open a beer, and get back to work on his truck. It didn’t seem like-

“Frankie?”

His attention snapped up from the tabletop to find a gorgeous woman standing above him, the sunset shining through the windows behind her like a colorful halo. She stared at him questioningly, almost in awe.

You. It was you.

He had never thought that those scenes in movies where a guy was tongue-tied seeing a woman was actually something that could happen until his mind was blank and mouth ajar.

Finally, he said your name, practically dumbstruck. “W-what are you doing here?”

You simply laughed sweetly — a beautiful, almost heart-stopping sound. “I, um… I think I may be here for the same reason you are.”

All at once, the reality of everything hit him. Santi. His insistence about this date. The text. Santi knew. He had set this whole thing up because he had known this whole time how Frankie felt about you.

Suddenly, all of Santi’s glowing descriptions of you clicked into place, all of them true and none of them doing you justice. Now, Santi saying that you were pretty felt like a hell of an understatement. He knew that, somewhere, that smug son of a bitch was incredibly proud of himself. Not that Frankie could quite blame him right now.

“Did you know?” Frankie asked, rising from his seat to stand in front of you.

You shook your head. “No. It seems like we were both in the dark here. But… I’m definitely not upset about it now.”

It was at this last part that your eyes met his again, hopeful and searching.

And just like that, in a mere twenty seconds, his whole world tipped on its head. The force of it would have knocked him clean off his feet if he let it — and he nearly did. If he hadn’t already been sure that he was indeed awake, he wouldn’t have quite believed it was really happening. It hit his system like a drug, the new wave of adrenaline filling his head with static. This static wasn’t the absence of thought — not anymore. No, now his head was filled with way too many all at once, each fighting to be heard until there was nothing but chaotic noise.

Then, over it all came a clear fact: you felt the same. Tonight was the chance he never thought he would have. Suddenly, his whole outlook on this date was changed.

“Me, too.” With a small burst of confidence, he admitted, “I… there’s no one else I would’ve wanted to have this with.”

The smile that bloomed on your face was as blinding as the beautiful sunset behind you.

Frankie guided you to your seat, pulling it out for you. Before you sat, you grazed your soft hand across his forearm as you thanked him, the touch sweet and electric.

Remember to fucking breathe, Frankie told himself.

As he made his way back to his seat, you spoke again, “I’m so, so sorry I was late! Traffic was terrible.”

Frankie — who was sure you were worth waiting for — assured you that it was no problem.

He couldn’t shake the feeling that this was different. You were different from anyone he had ever been on a date with. He couldn’t put a finger on exactly what it was that made you feel so… special.

“So,” he started, trying not to sound as breathless as he felt, “can I buy you a drink?”

You nodded with a smile, giving him a knowing look. “I know you’re a beer man. How about an order for two?”

Goddamn. For the first time in a long time, Frankie felt himself getting his hopes up.

You didn’t think you would ever be able to forgive Santi for this. You had known him for three years and he hadn’t set you up with Frankie like this sooner. All those terrible dates could have been avoided if Santi had just meddled in both of your love lives from the start.

Frankie was ridiculously handsome, endlessly sweet, and not nearly as quiet as he tended to be at Santi’s get-togethers. He had an easy sort of humor, one that was simple yet had you laughing seemingly without even trying. While you had both always just clicked, talking with him tonight made it feel as if you had known each other forever. You were only three hours in and this was already the best date of your life.

The fact that you thought the words only three hours into the date blew your mind. For a long time now, a three hour long date usually had you wishing for the quickest way out. You couldn’t wait to leave the train wreck that it usually was. Now? Three hours didn’t feel like nearly enough. You felt like you were just barely scratching the surface of Frankie, his life, his past. You loved every second you had with him in a way you never thought possible.

You had both quickly fallen into an easy rhythm with each other, all polite questions and light humor. While he was incredibly nice, you never felt as if he was putting on a persona. He was genuine, a trait that was both refreshing and intriguing. With Frankie, what you see is what you get, Santi had once told you. He had been telling the truth. And, damn, you liked what you saw.

Over the hours, your conversation shifted, turning from testing questions into old stories. Frankie, as you already knew, was a great storyteller. Not only was he giving you some seriously embarrassing stories of Santi that had you rolling, he had pictures to back his stories up. For the first time, you were happy to see your date whip out his phone. The pictures were from decades ago and the young, beardless Frankie that looked back from those photos made you smile. He had aged, you mused as you studied his face beside you, like a fine wine. Older and more rugged, but all the more attractive for it.

You slowly slid your chair around to get a better view of his phone inch by inch until you were sat next to him, your thighs touching each other. As he showed you a particularly tame picture of his friends from the army — Santi and the Miller brothers ever present — you could see by the pink that suddenly dusted his cheeks that he was aware of your thigh against his, too. While he didn’t say anything about it, you noticed the way he leaned against you ever so slightly.

He flicked to another photo, one that immediately caught your attention.

“Frankie,” you mused, “You’re so handsome!”

The photo he had flipped to was obviously a more recent one. He stood next to Will, both of them clad in disheveled white button-ups, ties undone around their collars, as they smiled at the camera. An out-of-place weathered ball cap sat on top of Frankie’s head, his curls poking out the bottom. His favorite Standard Oil hat. While out of place, it was fitting for him — a piece that blatantly showed something uniquely him. The final thing that drew your eye, however, was the several undone buttons that led down his front, exposing the tanned plane of his chest.

“Oh. I didn’t- I forgot that was-” he stuttered for a moment. He let out a nervous chuckle before explaining, “This was Will’s wedding. After the wedding, as you can see.”

You smiled. It was endearing the way he had been thrown off guard by this.

“You look ridiculously handsome,” you reiterated, looking at him pointedly.

Frankie flushed under the compliment again, his breathing noticeably picking up. “I- uh- thanks. I had the shirt tailored. And the pants-”

You giggled a bit, drawing his attention to you. Leaning close to his ear, you took a risk as you sweetly whispered, “The suit was nice, but I was talking about you. And the second compliment? I meant that you look ridiculously handsome tonight, too.”

Stunned, he simply held your gaze for a moment, plush pink lips slightly parted as you pulled back to look at him. He looked down at his hands as he mumbled a thank you, a bewildered smile on his lips. Obviously, he wasn’t used to such compliments.

Taking another risk, you brought the tip of your finger to the underside of his chin. Coarse hair tickled your skin as you brought his wide gaze up to yours.

“I mean it,” you assured, your finger dropping so that you could lay it on his shoulder.

“And I mean it when I say you’re the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen.” He said it breathlessly, your small gestures seemingly overwhelming his ability to breathe. His eyes were on you, wide and bare. “I thought so the day I met you.”

He feels it, too.

The world was still for a moment, the very air suspended between the two of you. The rest of the restaurant had fallen away, leaving only you and Frankie and the few inches between your lips.

All at once, Frankie locked his phone, abandoned it on the table, brought his hand to your cheek, and kissed you hard.

The world tipped.

Kissing Frankie felt like the drop of a rollercoaster, curling up next to the endless warmth of a fire, the joy of visiting an unknown city. All at once.

The force of it all stole the air from your lungs but you didn’t care. You couldn’t. The rush and hum in your veins wouldn’t let you. All you could think about was the movement of his plush lips against yours as your fingers wound into his curls.

It wasn’t a kiss fit for a first date. Yet, somehow, it felt right. Frankie felt right.

Frankie was the first to break, seemingly as breathless as you were. As your hooded eyes fluttered up to meet his, you found him to be as surprised as you were. He looked at you with a hungry sort of wonder before he blinked, a bit of self-consciousness falling across his features. You hadn’t noticed that he had lost that self-consciousness until it was already taking hold again — and if that was what he was like when it was gone, you wanted to see what he was like when he fully let go.

“S-sorry,” he stammered breathily. “I know that was probably too fast.”

You shook your head earnestly, not wanting to allow that self-consciousness of his to take over again. “Not fast enough.”

Hope flashed in his eyes. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “Do you wanna… get out of here?”

You saw Frankie’s eyes go wide and — for a second — thought you had pushed a little too far. But then he was fishing his wallet out of his back pocket as he answered definitively, “I’d love that.”

Now, you could see that same fire that you felt behind his eyes. A fire that filled you with a ridiculous amount of excitement.

He settled the check before you could even offer to pay, but now you were a little more than distracted as butterflies bloomed in your stomach for the first time in a long time.

This wasn’t like you. None of this was like you. You didn’t kiss guys on the first date, much less ask them to bed. Granted, most dates had you running for the door before anything like that could happen, but still. The sentiment stood.

Everything about Frankie was different, though. And the only thing you could really think about right now was having that man under you before the night ended.

When Frankie exited the restaurant with your hand in his, the tension between you two felt like a live wire and his heart was thundering in his chest.

In a quick moment of planning in the parking lot, he found out that the roommate you had mentioned earlier was currently at your place. His place was over a forty minute drive from this restaurant on the other side of the city. While it was doable, it seemed like a lot for how… urgently he needed you.

Just as he was starting to lose hope, your eyes flicked to the side. He watched as you playfully bit your lip, a flash of hope in your eyes. He followed your gaze across the street to see one of the many hotels in the city that he barely paid any mind to.

So that was how he found himself with a key to room 103, your hand in his as he led you through the lobby.

It was all a rushed blur — finding the door, turning the feeble lock on the inside, pressing you against the wall of the small room, your sweet little moans against his mouth. You were all there was.

As much as he had loved your outfit, he liked the sight even more now that you were stripped of it all.

All of his senses were underwater, the world moving too fast for him to keep up. He hadn’t felt like this in a long, long time. He hadn’t wanted to feel like this in a long time. But now, with your fingers twisted into his hair and your body beneath him on the plush mattress, he finally let himself go.

Years ago, Frankie had once been caught in a riptide of the ocean. Having grown up merely a few hours away from the beach, he had known that the current couldn’t be fought. It was too strong, a force of nature one couldn’t hope to go against. It felt a hell of a lot like this. Like you. You had caught him as unsuspecting as the current had that day. Only this time, he didn’t want to get out. He didn’t swim parallel to shore until he could escape your gasp, he only let you drag him out to the depths of an unfamiliar sea.

Frankie’s lips were everywhere. Your lips, your neck, your chest. You closed your eyes, letting the feeling wash over you.

“Frankie,” you whined, voice so breathy you barely recognized it yourself. “Frankie, I need you. I need you right now.”

The warmth of his hand slid up to palm at your breast, his mouth finding yours again.

“You’ve got me,” he assured you, voice deliciously deep and raspy. “I’m yours.”

You would’ve paid more mind to this last part if his free hand hadn’t been sliding down your stomach to your pussy. A gasp escaped you as he toyed with your clit for a moment, rubbing slow circles.

“Fuck, yeah. That’s it,” he mumbled. “You’re so wet already. You’re so fuckin’ beautiful.”

As he leaned down to kiss your neck, you felt him slip a finger into your heat. You grabbed at his back, at his hair, lost in the feeling of him as you clung to him like a lifeline. It was slow at first, testing before he began to build up to a steady pace. Already, it wasn’t enough. You needed so much more.

When you bucked your hips looking for more friction, Frankie said, “I know, I know. You’re just so tight, baby. Gotta work you up.”

Much to your dismay, he pulled his finger out for a moment. Bringing his attention back to your clit, he stopped your protest dead in your throat. Then, he slipped two fingers back into you, resuming his pace from before.

He pushed himself up a little, looking first at your face and then down where you took his fingers with lust-blown eyes. Frankie was still in his boxers, but you could see the prominent outline of his hard cock straining against the black fabric.

“Fuck,” he mused, before slipping a third finger into you. You moaned out his name as the familiar coil began to build in your stomach.

“Frankie…Frankie — fuck, baby — I’m gonna come. I’m gonna-”

Suddenly, the air was stolen from your lungs, your mouth open in a silent scream as your orgasm slammed into you. You clenched around Frankie’s fingers, but he kept going, praising you all the while.

“That’s it. That’s it, hermosa. Ride it out.”

Your orgasm lasted a lifetime, Frankie drawing it out of you for a length of time you hadn’t thought possible. Wave after blissful wave.

When you came down, panting and head spinning, you found Frankie popping his fingers in his mouth, eyes closed and moaning a little as he did.

“You even taste sweet,” he mused.

You giggled, pulling him down to kiss you again. After a moment, you pulled away enough to whisper against his lips, “Need these off, Frankie.”

You lightly tugged at the band of his boxers, giving him a hint.

Frankie threw himself backwards, rushing to push the fabric down his legs and discard it to the floor in whatever direction it decided to go.

Oh. Oh, wow.

To say that Frankie was impressive seemed like an understatement. Already flushed and leaking, his cock was both long and thick.

For the first time in your life, you found yourself saying, “I don’t know if it’ll fit.”

You saw Frankie’s mouth twitch up for a moment. “Now you’re just stroking my ego.”

You pushed yourself up to your knees, scooting over top of Frankie so that you straddled him. In the midst of it, lust replaced the humor on his face. His hands found your waist as you used a hand on his chest to coax him to lay back on the mattress.

“I’ll do a little more than just stroke it,” you promised.

“Fuck,” Frankie breathed, almost to himself. Bringing your hand to his cock, you teased him with a few testing pumps. He tipped his head back against the bed, groaning as you ghosted the tip of your thumb over the head. With a deep baritone, he pleaded, “God, baby, please.”

How could you deny that? You couldn’t even hold yourself back anymore.

You guided him to your entrance before slowly lowering to take him. It was a stretch, one that felt overwhelming and all too good at the same time. Frankie’s hands found your hips, a string of encouraging praises falling from his lips as he watched you take every inch of him with laser-like focus.

“That’s it, baby,” he cooed, disheveled and wrecked as he looked up at you. “I knew you could take all of me. Goddamn, you feel so good.”

You felt so unbelievably full. Suddenly, the ability to speak had been stolen from you, replaced with the simple need for friction.

You rocked your hips, earning a hiss from Frankie as his fingertips gripped your hips for dear life. Slowly, you built your pace as you rode him. He was so deep, you never knew it could feel like this. Soon enough, you had a good pace.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

The rhythmic noise was in the background at first, lost to the sound of your and Frankie’s moans and grunts. But then you realized how close it was.

Frankie read the confusion on your face immediately. “The bed,” he explained, panting. “The shitty bed’s hitting the wall.”

Oh. It was obvious now, but your brain was underwater, your only concern being the unbelievable man beneath you. But there was a small part of your brain somewhere in the haze that was still rational that knew the last thing you needed right now was hotel management knocking on your door after a complaint.

“Floor,” Frankie offered, seemingly on the same page. “It’ll be easier on the floor.”

After a brief moment to relocate, you were once again on top of Frankie, your knees against the cheap, rough carpet as you rode him without abandon. He was lost in it, switching between letting his eyes roll back and needing to watch you. To praise you.

“Fuck, yes, baby. This pussy’s so perfect. You’re so perfect.” He was babbling, but you loved it. A sense of urgency, of longing lurked in his tone.

You panted and cursed, so close to the edge but not quite able to get there. “Frankie. Baby, I need more.”

Frankie’s eyes snapped up to your face, a new sort of darkness to his eyes. His hand came to your back to brace you against him before he flipped you both, your back meeting the carpet. Now, he loomed over you as he kissed you deeply. Right as he pulled his lips away from yours, he gave a sharp, hard thrust into you. You cried out, scrambling to scratch at his back in an attempt to find purchase. Again and again, he drove into you, making a devastating pace.

His pants fanned across your lips, seemingly lost in the feeling of you. “Yeah, that’s it. That’s it. Fuck… baby — fuck — I’m close. Need you to come. Come for me, cariño.”

If you had the ability to speak anymore, you would’ve told him that you were right there, teetering on the edge.

With a few more thrusts, you toppled over. The sounds you made were obscene as ecstasy took over.

“Where do you want it, baby?” Frankie rasped desperately. “I need you… I need you to tell me.”

“Inside,” you gasped.

“Fuck. You’re so fuckin’ good, baby,” Frankie cooed in your ear. “Ah. So fuckin’ tight. Squeezin’ me so good. I’m- I’m gon-”

He didn’t finish his sentence before he was driving himself deep and releasing into you. His mouth fell open as he rode it out, grinding into you.

When he was completely spent, he let himself sag down a little above you, his head dropping as he tried to catch his breath. Every moment or so, he would let out a beautiful little ah sound, especially as he pulled out of you.

For the second time that night, you brought your pointer finger underneath his chin and slowly guided him to look at you. You caught the enamored look in his eyes a moment before you leaned up to kiss him. Slowly, meaningfully.

Against his lips, you said, “God, Frankie, if I would’ve known that you liked me, too… or that we could’ve been doing this all this time…”

Frankie gave an incredulous laugh, pulling back to look at you. “Like you? I’ve been crazy about you since the day we met.”

You laughed, looking at the ceiling for a moment before meeting his eyes again. “Me, too! I hadn’t been able to stop staring at you the entire cookout that day.”

“I wanted to ask you out then,” he admitted, his brown eyes earnest. “And every time we saw each other afterwards. I always talked myself out of it.”

“I would’ve said yes,” you assured.

Frankie ran a thumb over your cheek. “Think it’s too soon to ask you on a second date?”

You giggled against him, feeling his body shake against yours as he laughed, too. “Not soon enough. How does Wednesday night sound?”

“Perfect. I hope it’s not too crude to say that I hope it ends a lot like tonight did.”

You patted his tanned chest, giving him a knowing smile. “Let’s pick a restaurant closer to your place, then.”

#frankie morales #francisco morales #frankie morales x reader #triple frontier #frankie morales x you #francisco catfish morales #pedro pascal #triple frontier fanfiction #santi garcia #santiago garcia #santiago pope garcia #my writing

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underground-secret · 1 year ago

Text

The Hunter and the Witch ~ Dean Winchester x fem! reader

Description: Dean asks Y/N to help him find his Dad who mysteriously went missing. The two along with Deans brother, Sam, go to investigate John, the dad’s, last hunt the one in which he’d gone missing from.

Warnings: cannon violence, mentions of su!cide, arguing,witch craft, arguing, curse words, everything written is fiction and should not be taken seriously

word count: 6,103

The Woman In White

(Masterlist/ Next chapter)

Present day…

A knock at the door halted my movements, I wasn’t expecting anyone.

I placed the book I was reading on my coffee table, jumping up to see who was at my front door. Suspicion and anticipation flooded my veins as I peeked through the peephole seeing a familiar deep brown leather jacket, not needing anymore confirmation I opened the door swiftly.

“Y/N.” Dean spoke, a mix of relief and worry laced within his voice.

“Dean” I responded with a smile making its way on my face. I practically jump on him my arms around his neck, the last time I saw him was a month ago when he came up to Maine to hang out with me. We were sitting on the hood of the impala just taking in the view when he said he needed to tell me something, he had this look in his eyes that I couldn’t quite place and just as he was about to ask his phone rang and he had to leave. Since then I hadn’t heard anything from him, no calls or texts.

I let those thoughts pass through me as his initial shock wears off, wrapping his arms around my waist squeezing tightly.

I end our hug, remembering the worry in his voice as he said my name, motioning for him to come in leading him to my living room.

“You cut your hair” He acknowledged, sitting down.

“Felt like it needed a change” I say shrugging.

I had so much I wanted to ask him, but even before that I wanted to hug him again. I didn’t move to do either not wanting to scare him off.

“You sound worried, Dean, is everything okay?” I can’t help but ask, my eyebrows scrunching with worry.

“I'm okay sweetheart, but I do need your help. Dads been missing for a couple of days.” He explained the worry in his voice returning.

“You really think he’s in danger? I mean this has happened before and he always comes back fine” I rationalize.

“Not for this long.” he answered simply.

“Okay” I breathed out already knowing my answer the moment he said he needed my help, “Okay, just give me a couple of minutes to pack.” I repeated as I stood up, that charming smile landed on his face as he stood up with me. I took this as my opportunity to wrap my arms around him, this time around his torso, giving him another hug, if missing someone was illegal then lock me up. His arms wrapped around my waist and I felt the tension I hadn't realized was there, washing off my body.

I broke away first, immediately regretting it, pointing upstairs as a sign for me to start packing.

After traveling many days from Maine to LA we had finally made it to Sam’s place, who Dean naturally also wanted on board to find their dad.

Dean had parked the Impala in a parking lot close by, the darkness of the night cloaking us as Dean found a way in.

I whispered, warning Dean, “He’s already gonna be grumpy about you showing up here let alone breaking in!!”

But he dismissed me with a wave of his hand as he carefully opened up a window, sneaking in before turning back around and offering me a hand. I give him a look that says ‘really we’re doing this’ as I accept his offer and enter the house.

I follow after Dean as he enters a hallway, when suddenly a tall man lunges forward and grabs Dean's shoulder.

I figure it’s most likely Sammy and decide that I can stay back as the brothers have their quarrel.

Dean knocks Sam's arm away and aims a strike at him, missing as Sam ducks. Their fight continues until Dean finally knocks Sam down and pins him to the floor.

“Easy tiger” Dean huffs.

“Dean?” Sam asks, getting a laugh in response.

“You scared the crap out of me!” Sam complains

“That's ‘cause you're out of practice” Dean responds before Sam manages to knock Dean to the floor.

“Or not” Dean mumbles, face full of floor.

They finally get off of each other, as Sam asks “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Well, I was looking for a beer” Dean replies, getting a response from me this time

“Dude, really?”

“Y/N? You're here too?!”

“Hi Sam!” I respond, smiling brightly.

Dean pats Sam on the shoulder, in the weird way guys do to greet another guy, “We gotta talk” Dean explains.

“Uh, the phone?” Sam reasons

“If I'd called, would you have picked up?” Dean counters, getting a low stretched out “yikes” from me as I add in very helpful commentary earning two hard glares from both boys.

Then the light suddenly turns on revealing a curly haired blonde woman wearing short shorts and a cropped Smurfs shirt, very fashionable. I already like her even though I don’t know who she is.

“Sam?” the woman asks, tiredness lacing her voice.

“Jess. Hey. Dean. Y/N, this is my girlfriend, Jessica.” Sam introduces

I smile wildly waving at her, excited to finally meet the woman i’ve heard lots about, while Dean checks her out earning a slap on the back of his head from me

“Wait, your brother Dean? And your friend Y/N?” Jessica asks as Dean turns his head to me annoyed.

Sam nods and Dean moves closer to her ignoring my warning via head smack.

“Oh, I love the Smurfs. You know, I gotta tell you. You are completely out of my brother's league” Dean grins.

“Really, Dean” I deadpan, getting an appreciative half smile from Sam while Dean ignores me.

“Just let me put something on” Jessica says, turning to go before being stopped by another sly comment from Dean “No, no, no, I wouldn't dream of it. Seriously.”

I move forward hitting Dean on the back of the head once more, this time harder, he turns around to me “Really?”

“Yes.” I repond simply.

Dean turns back to Jessica, “Uh anyway, I gotta borrow your boyfriend here, talk about some private family business” He explains before turning to Sam throwing a “But, uh, nice meeting you.”

“No,” Sam replies, going over to Jessica and putting an arm around her.

“Whatever you want to say, you can say it in front of her” he goes on.

Dean turns to look at them both head on, “Okay, Dad hasn't been home in a few days.”

“So he's working overtime on a Miller Time shift. He'll stumble back sooner or later” Sam reasons.

Dean huffs, clarifying, “Dad's on a hunting trip. And he hasn't been home in a few days.”

Sam's expression doesn't change as Jessica glances up at him.

“Jess, excuse us. We have to go outside.”

Dean heads downstairs, Sam follows after him once he changed into jeans and a hoodie, knowing they would be having an argument. I walked behind Sam making sure I was going slow.

Sam states the obvious, “I mean, come on. You can't just break in, middle of the night, and expect me to hit the road with you.”

I hold back my ‘I told you so’ comment.

“You're not hearing me, Sammy. Dad's missing. I need you to help me find him” Dean counters.

“You remember the poltergeist in Amherst? Or the Devil's Gates in Clifton? He was missing then, too. He's always missing, and he's always fine” Sam reasons, pointing out the same thing I did only a couple days ago.

Dean stops and turns around, Sam stopping too.

“Not for this long. Now are you gonna come with me or not?” Dean asks

“I'm not” Sam replies simply prompting a “Why not?” from Dean.

“I swore I was done hunting. For good” Sam clarifies

“Come on. It wasn't easy, but it wasn't that bad.” Dean try’s reason.

Even though he said it I know we were all thinking it is that bad, it’s always a dangerous game.

Dean starts walking again, Sam and, subsequently, me following.

“Yeah? When I told Dad I was scared of the thing in my closet, he gave me a .45” Sam recalls

Dean stops at the door to the outside, “Well, what was he supposed to do?”

“I was nine years old! He was supposed to say, don't be afraid of the dark.”

“I’m sorry Dean but Sam’s right about that” I chime in.

“Don't be afraid of the dark? Are you kidding me? Of course you should be afraid of the dark. You know what's out there” Dean explains, looking at the both of us like we’re crazy.

“Yeah, I know, but still. The way we grew up, after Mom was killed, and Dad's obsession to find the thing that killed her. Yet we still haven't found the damn thing. So we kill everything we can find” Sam rationalizes.

“We save a lot of people doing it, too.”

There was a pause where no one said anything before Sam asked, “You think Mom would have wanted this for us?”

I tense knowing that was a sensitive topic, as Dean throws open the door clearly pissed at the mere mention.

“The weapon training, and melting the silver into bullets? Man, Dean, we were raised like warriors” Sam, sadly, points out as we cross and enter the parking lot to the Impala.

“So what are you gonna do? You're just gonna live some normal, apple pie life? Is that it?” Dean argues.

“No. Not normal. Safe” Sam clarifies before adding,

“And that's why you ran away.”

“I was just going to college. It was Dad who said if I was gonna go I should stay gone. And that's what I'm doing.”

“Yeah, well, Dad's in real trouble right now. If he's not dead already. I can feel it.”

“A-And what about you Y/N? Last time we talked you were saying how you were really happy with your job. Did you just throw that all away to help Dean? No offense Y/N but you really don’t owe him, let alone our Dad, anything.”

I breathe in sharply not expecting him to throw me into this conversation. He was right though, I really did love my job, I was a journalist for a crime website/paper. It paid well and was a way for me to signal to any hunters around if there was something supernatural about the case.

But even so I countered, “I do love my job and just because I agreed to come with doesn't mean I stopped doing it, I was able to make a deal to do it on the road and I’ll do it as long as I’m able to. And trust me I know I don’t owe anyone anything, but you guys are my best friends so you say you need help and I will gladly come, no questions asked.”

Sam looks down, sighing, “You’re too nice for your own good.”

Dean pipes up, “I can't do this without you, Sammy.”

“Yes you can.”

“Yeah, well, I don't want to” Dean clarifies with a sadness in his voice that if you hadn’t known him well you probably wouldn’t have heard.

Sam sighs, “What was he hunting?”

Dean opens the trunk of the car, then the spare-tire compartment that he uses as an arsenal. He props the compartment open with a shotgun so that he can dig through the clutter.

“So when Dad left, why didn't you go with him?”

“Well, first I was hangin with Y/N here for a while before I started working my own gig. This, uh, voodoo thing, down in New Orleans” Dean answers.

Even though it was hardly a sentiment, the mention of us hanging out those weeks brought a smile to my face.

“Dad let you go on a hunting trip by yourself?” Sam questioned.

“I'm twenty-six, dude” Dean spoke as he pulled out papers from a folder, the ones he showed me at the first motel we slept at on our long journey to LA.

“All right, here we go. So Dad was checking out this two-lane blacktop just outside of Jericho, California. About a month ago, this guy.”

Dean hands one of the paper articles to Sam, adding on “They found his car, but he vanished. Completely MIA.”

“So maybe he was kidnapped” Sam reasons.

I answer this time, reciting what I remembered reading as Dean handed Sammy more articles, “Well there was another in April, then in December of oh-four, oh-three, ninety-eight, ninety-two and some more for a grand total of ten over the last twenty years.”

Dean puts the papers away pulling out a bag and then a tape recorder as he continues the info dump,

“All men, all the same five-mile stretch of road. It started happening more and more, so Dad went to go dig around. That was about three weeks ago. I hadn't heard from him since, which is bad enough. Then I got this voicemail yesterday on our drive to you.”

He presses play, the familiar voice of John, their dad, and static playing, having heard it multiple times, “Dean...something big is starting to happen...I need to try and figure out what's going on. It may... Be very careful, Dean. We're all in danger.”

He stops the recording.

“You know there's EVP on that, right?” Sam mentions.

Dean smiles, “Not bad, Sammy. Kinda like riding a bike, isn't it?

All right. I slowed the message down, I ran it through a gold wave, took out the hiss, and this is what I got.”

He presses play again, “I can never go home…”

“Never go home” Sam repeats as Dean puts everything back where it belongs to shut the trunk.

“Fun, right?” I comment sarcastically.

Sam sighs, “All right. I'll go. I'll help you find him. But I have to get back first thing Monday. Just wait here.”

Sam turns to go back to the apartment but turns back when Dean says, “What's first thing Monday?”

“I have this...I have an interview.”

“What, a job interview? Skip it.”

“It's a law school interview, and it's my whole future on a plate.”

Dean smirks, “Law school?”

“So we got a deal or not?”

Dean says nothing so I do, “Yes, we do” I confirm.

We arrive at the highway where all the men have gone missing just as Sam hangs up the phone, “All right. So, there's no one matching Dad at the hospital or morgue. So that's something, I guess.”

“That’s good!” I add.

Dean then slows the car as we near on a bridge, police cars and men all around, he pulls over fully leaning over to open the glove box, exposing the many fake ids he and his dad had, one’s like FBI and such.

Sam glares at while I say, “Love a good ol’ fraud”

We exit the car heading towards the deputy.

Dean starts, “You fellas had another one like this just last month, didn't you?”

The deputy looks up at us asking, “And who are you?”

Dean flashes his badge, clarifying, “Federal marshals.”

“You three are a little young for marshals, aren't you?” The man asks.

But Dean just laughs, “Thanks, that's awfully kind of you.”

Truthfully he has absolutely no reason to be that smooth.

Dean goes over to the car, the one that belongs to the guy who went missing aka Troy, “You did have another one just like this, correct?”

Jaffe, the deputy who’s name tag I was finally able to read,responds “Yeah, that's right. About a mile up the road. There've been others before that.”

“So, this victim, you knew him?” Sam chimes in, asking

“Town like this, everybody knows everybody.”

Then I ask, “Besides them being all men have you found any other correlation?”

“No. Not so far as we can tell.” He responds truthfully.

“So what's the theory?” Sam asks

“Honestly, we don't know. Serial murder? Kidnapping ring?”

So nothing. Great.

Just before I could ask another question Dean comments, “Well, that is exactly the kind of crack police work I'd expect out of you guys.”

Sam stomps on Dean's foot, clearing up his comment by saying “Thank you for your time. Gentlemen”

We walk away, with nothing, no helpful information, no nothing.

We make it into town, luckily finding who we assume to be the girlfriend of Troy.

Somehow Dean managed to convince the girl, Amy, that we were Troy's Uncles and Aunt who were also looking for our missing nephew.

Even more surprising we were able to get her to come to a Diner with us to talk, her friend Rachel joining us.

Rachel and Amy sat across from us in a booth, me being squished in by the wall as Dean sat next to me with an arm on the back of my seat and Sam sitting next to him.

Amy begins to explains the last time she saw Troy, “I was on the phone with Troy. He was driving home. He said he would call me right back, and...he never did.”

Sam asks, “He didn't say anything strange, or out of the ordinary?”

Amy shakes her head, “No. Nothing I can remember.”

“I like your necklace, it’s really nice” I say, noticing the pentagram she was wearing.

“Troy gave it to me. Mostly to scare my parents—with all that devil stuff.” Amy says, laughs at the memory.

“I don’t know if you believe in that kind of thing but pentagrams are actually a good tool, it protects you against evil. Your boyfriend has good taste, even if his intentions were different” I smile, careful to not use past tense to not give her the wrong impression.

Dean takes his arm off the back of my seat to lean in “Here's the deal, ladies. The way Troy disappeared, something's not right. So if you've heard anything…” going the complete opposite direction I was aiming for aka nice and sympathetic.

But it seems to work as the girls look at each other debating whether whatever they had was worth sharing.

Rachel speaks this time, “Well, it's just... I mean, with all these guys going missing, people talk.”

Dean and Sam ask at the same time, “What do they talk about?”

Neither boy called jinx, missed opportunity.

“It's kind of this local legend. This one girl? She got murdered on Centennial, like decades ago.Well, supposedly she's still out there. She hitchhikes, and whoever picks her up? Well, they disappear forever.”

After heading to the library we found out about our murderous spirit, a twenty-four year old Constance Welch who committed suicide in 1981 after her two kids died in the bathtub when she walked away for a moment.

She commited on the very bridge that Troy, and many others went missing.

So that very night, we walked along the bridge, stopping to lean on the railing. “So this is where Constance took the swan dive.” Dean said, looking over the railing.

“What a respectful way to put it, Dean” I say to him sarcastically.

“So you think Dad would have been here?” Sam asks Dean.

“Well, he's chasing the same story and we're chasing him.” Dean spoke, I knew this would turn into another argument between them so I walked in front of them to give them room.

Their conversation became murmurs as I kept ahead, minutes going by before I turned around to wait for them to catch up.

“Dean, I told you, I've gotta get back by Monday—“ Sam said frustrated before being cut off by Dean

“Monday. Right. The interview.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, I forgot. You're really serious about this, aren't you? You think you're just going to become some lawyer? Marry your girl?” Dean asked.

“Maybe. Why not?” Sam answered back

“Does Jessica know the truth about you? I mean, does she know about the things you've done?” Dean argues.

“No, and she's not ever going to know.” Sam responds.

“Well, that's healthy. You can pretend all you want, Sammy. But sooner or later you're going to have to face up to who you really are.” Dean turns around and keeps walking, Sam following, caught up to me at this point.

“And who's that?” Sam questions.

“You're one of us.” Dean motions to me and him.

Sam hurries to get in front of us, “No. I’m not like you. This is not going to be my life…no offense Y/N”

“It’s okay Sam no offense taken, this job isn’t so dreamy” I respond.

“You're on his side?!” Dean yells, turning towards me.

“I-I mean do you blame me? It’s his life! And if he wants to settle down and try to forget the things that go bump in the night then that’s his decision to make. Don’t you wish things could be different?” I argue back, dying down with my question.

“He has a responsibility to—“ Dean gets cut off by Sam now, “To Dad? And his crusade? If it weren't for pictures I wouldn't even know what Mom looks like. And what difference would it make? Even if we do find the thing that killed her, Mom's gone. And she isn't coming back.”

My heart aches for him, I understand what it’s like to lose a mother but at least I had time with her.

Then Dean grabs Sam by the collar and shoves him up against the railing of the bridge. “Don't talk about her like that.”

“Dean!” I shout out.

He releases Sam with a huff and walks away.

“Are you okay, Sam?” I ask

He nods but by the look on his face I can tell he’s frustrated.

“Y/N.Sam.” Dean alerted us, we moved to stand next to him seeing a pretty pale women in white with dark brown hair, Constance. She was on the edge of the bridge, and with one final look back at us she stepped off.

We run to the railing but see nothing.

“Where’d she go?” Dean asks no one in particular. “I don’t know” Sam responds while I add on “Freaky.”

The sudden roaring of an engine forces our attention behind us once more revealing it to be the Impala with its headlights also on. I whip my head towards Dean, double checking that he isn’t the one in the car.

“What the—“Dean starts

“Who's driving your car?”

Dean pulls the keys out of his pocket and jingles them. Sam glances down at them. The car suddenly jerks into motion, heading straight for us.

With no other speaking necessary, we turn and run.

“Go! Go!” I yell, panic running through me. But the car was moving faster than we were and it was all too close far too quickly.

Dean grabs hold of my wrist forcing us both on and over the railing of the bridge into the ice cold river, knowing I would never do such a thing willingly (even with the circumstances). Sam jumped over, right after us.

The river was, truthfully, more mud than water or at least that’s how it felt. I choke as I breach the surface, Dean’s firm grip on my wrist remaining making it easier to locate him as he pulls us both out and onto the riverbend.

“Dean? Y/N” Sam calls out, his voice coming from above meaning he hadn’t fallen into the river and wasn’t suffering like us, lucky bastard.

It’s only when we’re both standing, out of the river, do I realize just how bad we are. Mud cakes to every inch of my skin, forcing the clothes I was wearing to stick to me, and I knew that my hair would be a catastrophe to deal with.

I want to start crying, seriously.

“What?” Dean calls back

“Hey! Are you all right?” Sam asks the both of us. I watch Dean through an ‘ok’ hand sign along with an “I’m super” just as I hang my head down.

Sam laughs and I suddenly feel very compelled to go up there and throw him in the river so that he could suffer too.

Dean still kept a hand on my wrist all the way up until we were back to the Impala, immediately he went to check if Baby was okay.

He shuts the hood of the car and leans on it.

“Your car all right?” Sam asks him.

“Yeah, whatever she did to it, seems all right now. That Constance chick, what a bitch!” Dean complains.

“Well, she doesn't want us digging around, that's for sure. So where's the job go from here, genius?” Sam asked as he settled on the hood next to Dean while I prompted to stand knowing that if I sat I'd just feel the mud even more.

Dean throws up his arms in frustration, flicking mud off his hands.

Sam sniffs, then looks at Dean and I. “You guys smell like a toilet.”

“Alright I can't take this” I complained, moving to stand right in front of Dean. I slap a hand near his shoulder and begin a cleansing spell. The latin slips off my tongue as I catch my reflection on the car seeing my irises glowing purple, like they always do when I use my powers.

The mud, the icky-ness, and the smell vanish from the both of us as I finish the short spell. It’s definitely a weird feeling but far better than the feeling of mud being everywhere.

A sigh of relief comes from Dean as he covers my hand on his shoulder with his own, giving it a squeeze. “Thanks sweetheart”

“You’re welcome! Consider it a thanks for pulling me out of that mud-river.” I respond back cheerfully, eyes focused on Dean as I smile.

I feel Sam’s eyes going from me to Dean in an almost freaked out way.

“I didn’t know you could do that” He breathed

“If I sat here and listed everything I could do we’d be here for a hot minute” I smirked just a little pridefully.

“Two rooms, please.” Dean asks the motel clerk. By the time we got to a motel it was already morning so it was safe to say we all wanted a little break.

The Clerk picks up the card and looks at it. “Are you guys having a reunion or something?”

“What do you mean?” Sam asks as I look between both boys, also confused.

“I had another guy, Burt Aframian. He came and bought a room for the whole month.” The Clerk explains, and the realization hits us all.

John.

The motel door swings open, Sam having just picked the lock to John's room. Sam and I enter, complementing his criminal skills while Dean is just outside, playing lookout until I grab hold of his upper arm and pull him inside. Sam closing the door behind us.

Every surface has papers pinned to it like maps, newspaper clippings, pictures and notes. There’s books on the desk and assorted mess on the floor and bed. There’s a line of salt on the floor and half eaten food on the desk.

“I don't think he's been here for a couple days at least.” Dean informs sniffing a half eaten burger.

“Salt, cats-eye shells...he was worried. Trying to keep something from coming in.” Sam noted.

Dean looks at the papers covering one wall.

“What have you got here?” I ask, half looking at the junk on the bed.

“Centennial Highway victims.” He replies

The paper showed some of the victims including Mark somebody, William Durrell, Scott Nifong who disappeared in 1987 at age 25, and somebody Parks. Judging by the photos Mark, Durrell, and Nifong were all white males.

“I don't get it. I mean, different men, different jobs—ages, ethnicities. There's always a connection, right? What do these guys have in common?” Dean asks to no one in particular

“Well it’s not always about the outward stuff could be something more personal in their life, maybe a sequence of events or just something as simple as an action” I inform.

“Dad figured it out” Sam detects, me and Dean turning to see him in front of papers on another wall. Something about Witches, demons, devils, and so on along with an article about the “Woman in White.”

“What do you mean?” Dean asks him

Sam clarifies, “He found the same article we did. Constance Welch. She's a woman in white.”

“You sly dogs…All right, so if we're dealing with a woman in white, Dad would have found the corpse and destroyed it.” Dean comments looking closer at the pictures of her victims while I get more distracted on the clippings about the witches, yes it hadn’t a thing to do with this hunt but I mean come on.

“She might have another weakness.” Sam suggests

“Well, Dad would want to make sure. He'd dig her up. Does it say where she's buried?” Dean counters.

“No, not that I can tell. If I were Dad, though, I'd go ask her husband.”

“If he’s even alive, and he’d be sixty-two by now” I murmur, chiming in.

“All right. Why don't you guys, uh, see if you can find an address, I'm gonna go take a piss” Dean informs.

I scrunch my eyebrows as I say, “Have fun!”

Dean starts to walk away but he stops when Sam starts speaking, “Hey, Dean?…What I said earlier, about Mom and Dad, I'm sorry.”

Dean holds up a hand, “No chick-flick moments.”

Sam laughs and nods, “All right. Jerk.” It’s then that I knew that everything between them would be okay.

“Bitch” Dean calls back as he disappears into the bathroom.

I keep looking at the articles on the wall, reading more on Constance victims, but in the corner of my eye I see Sam smiling sadly at a photo he picked up from a mirror frame in the room.

A minute or so later Sam begins to pace the room before opting for sitting on the bed, with his phone to his ear

Dean exits the bathroom half shrugging on his jacket as he says, “Hey, man. I'm starving, I'm gonna grab a little something to eat in that diner down the street. Do either of you want anything?”

“No.” Sam answers plainly.

“Oooh! Can you get me some fries?” I ask, getting all excited for some food as I pull out my laptop from my messenger bag ready to find that address.

“Sure thing, baby.” He says throwing me that charming smile and a wink that causes my cheeks to flush. “You sure Sammy, Aframian's buying.”

But Sam shakes his head printing Dean to head out.

I’m just about to start searching on google when Sam stands up suddenly with panicked eyes.

“We have to go, now.”

Sam filled me in on the ride to Joseph Welch’s house, we had to keep going even with Dean arrested.

“Hi. Are you Joseph Welch?” Sam asks the older man

“Yeah.”

Sam had given him a photo, the one he got from the hotel mirror, as we followed Joseph down his cluttered driveway.

“Yeah, he was older, but that's him.” Joseph says, referring to John, handing the photo back.

“He came by three or four days ago. Said he was a reporter.”

“That's right. We're working on a story together.” Sam explains.

“Well, I don't know what the hell kinda story you're working on. The questions he asked me?”

“It’s an article about the understanding of young women committing suicide as a result of grief. We wanted to get all the details and even include a case that was more than 20 years old” I said cutting in, my experience as a journalist coming in handy.

“He asked me where she was buried” he deadpanned.

“I’m sorry Sir if our partner came off gruff and unsympathetic, and truly I hate to have to ask you again I mean I know this must still be difficult but where was she buried? It’d be helpful to know it again as a fact check because, as you can tell, our partner isn’t the best with people” I explain trying to come off the exact opposite way that John had.

“In a plot. Behind my old place over on Breckenridge.” He answered simply, only seeming a little bothered.

“And why did you move?” I ask.

“I'm not gonna live in the house where my children died,” he replied, I nodded at what he said.

Sam stops walking so I stop not knowing what he was getting at, Joseph then stops too.

“Mr. Welch, did you ever marry again?” Sam pipes up.

“No way. Constance, she was the love of my life. Prettiest woman I ever known.” John reminisced.

“So you had a happy marriage?”

But Joseph hesitates for a beat then says, “Definitely”.

How convincing.

“Well, I think we got what we needed. Thank you, Mr.Welch, for your time and sorry again.” I concluded.

Sam and I turn to walk back to the Impala, but he pauses turning back towards Joseph who began to walk away.

“Mr. Welch, did you ever hear of a woman in white?”

Joseph pauses, turning around “A what?”

“A woman in white. Or sometimes weeping woman?” Sam clarifies.

But John doesn't respond.

“It's a ghost story. Well, it's more of a phenomenon, really. Um, they're spirits—“

“Sam, What are-“ but my point goes on deaf ears as Sam stalks towards Joseph.

“They've been sighted for hundreds of years, dozens of places, in Hawaii, Mexico, lately in Arizona, Indiana. All these are different women. But all share the same story.”

“Boy, I don't care much for nonsense.” Joseph says walking away but Sam remains insistent as he follows

“See, when they were alive, their husbands were unfaithful to them. And these women, basically suffering from temporary insanity, murdered their children.Then once they realized what they had done, they took their own lives. So now their spirits are cursed, walking back roads, waterways. And if they find an unfaithful man, they kill him. And that man is never seen again.” Sam goes on stopping Joseph in his tracks, getting his attention once more.

“You think...you think that has something to do with...Constance? You smartass!” He lectures Sam.

“You tell me.” Sam says, calmly.

“I mean, maybe...maybe I made some mistakes. But no matter what I did, Constance, she never would have killed her own children. Now, you get the hell out of here! And you don't come back!”Joseph yells one final time, shaking with anger or maybe grief.

Sam turns walking back towards me.

“That was good Sammy, seriously” I admire his blunt choice patting him on the back.

Sam’s driving when his phone rings, handing it to me to pick up. I put it on speaker phone as a familiar voice rings out.

“Fake 911 phone call? Sammy, I don't know, that's pretty illegal.” Dean laughs proudly.

“It was actually Y/N’s idea” Sam clears up.

“Eh what’s one more crime to the endless list?” I say smiling pridefully.

Dean laughs and it bubbles something inside me, something that’s been there for a long time.

But his laugh dies down and he goes serious,

“Listen, we gotta talk.”

“Tell me about it. So the husband was unfaithful. We are dealing with a woman in white. And she's buried behind her old house, so that should have been Dad's next stop.” Sam informs Dean, catching him up.

“Sammy, would you shut up for a second?” Dean warns.

But Sam continues on, “I just can't figure out why Dad hasn't destroyed the corpse yet.”

“Well, that's what I'm trying to tell you. He's gone. Dad left Jericho.” Dean spoke.

“What? How do you know?” I ask, beating Sam to the question I know he was about to ask.

“I've got his journal” Dean announces

“He doesn't go anywhere without that thing.” Sam pointed out.

“Yeah, well, he did this time.”

“What's it say?”

“Ah, the same old ex-Marine crap, when he wants to let us know where he's going” Dean informs.

“Coordinates. Where to?” Sam questions

“I'm not sure yet.”

“I don't understand. I mean, what could be so important that Dad would just skip out in the middle of a job? Dean, what the hell is going on?” Sam slams the brake causing the phone to fall out of my hand, I whip my head to Sam and then back to the road seeing Constance standing ahead of us, the car doesn't slow quick enough as we halt right as we go through her.

All of a sudden Constance is in the back seat saying “Take me home”

I yelp, having not expected her to just be in the back seat. Next to me Sam is breathing hard, looking at the ghostly women in the rear view mirror.

“Sam? Y/N? Y/N!

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