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loverslantern · 1 year ago

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The Hunter and the Witch~ Dean Winchester x F! reader

Description: When Dean gets a call from an "old friend" asking for help, old feelings resurface leaving for messy feelings and a complicated hunt.

Warnings: canon violence, feelings of unrequited love, angst, loving someone being difficult, corpses, crime scenes, cursing, mentions of racism, racist ghost truck?

Tag list: @jesllianaquilesrolonsworld , @okayiamkassandra , @fablesrose , @ada--44 , @bonkydarnes , @star-yawnznn , @crazyunsexycool

Word Count: 9,251

Route 666

(Master list, Prev Ch, Next Chapter)

I lean against the expanse of the Impala, letting the bright sun shine over me. It was one of those cold but not cold days, where as long as the sun was hitting you it was perfectly right. Sam is next to me looking over the large map he has laid out on the hood of the car, trying to look for a way around a closed-off road.

I’m glad he knew what he was doing ‘cause my map and geography skills only went so far before I was lost.

Meanwhile, Dean was off to the side, his phone pressed to his ear his brows furrowed whoever he was talking to was clearly telling him something important and maybe shocking.

“Ok. I think I found a way we can bypass that construction just East of here,” Sam informs gaining my attention, “We might even make Pennsylvania faster than we thought.” I nod, taking advantage of his hunched-over figure to ruffle his hair, “Nice work, map man.” He snorts, rolling his eyes as he pushes my arm away playfully.

“Yeah. ‘Problem is, we’re not going to Pennsylvania” Dean points out, closing his phone and looking at it thoughtfully. I look at him confused, “We aren’t…?” He nods, wetting his lips, “I just got a call from an, uh, old friend. Her father was killed last night, think it might be our kind of thing.”

“What?” Sam vocalizes. “Yeah. Believe me, she never woulda called, never, if she didn’t need us” Dean clarifies. Without giving us any more information or even a chance to contemplate or counter his statement he gets in the car, “Come on, are you coming or not?”

The Impala cruises down the expanse of the road, a long beautifully green field on one side and a lake on the other. “By old friend you mean…?” Sam asks the question we were both undeniably thinking. “A friend that’s not new” Dean grumbles.

“Oh! Thanks, genius” I remark, he was being weird and that alone was not helping his case. “‘Said her name’s Cassie huh?” Sam said, trying a different angle, “You never mentioned her…”

“Didn’t I?” Dean remarks. He wasn't very good at hiding this one, the car falling silent in the wake of his stupid answer. He finally huffs, “Yeah, we went out.”

“You mean you dated somebody?” Sam asks with a snort, “For more than one night?”

“Oh come on Sammy we're all adults here, we’ve all dated before” I chime in with a smirk. He turns around in his seat, facing me with an expectant look, “Are we talking about the same person here? Dean doesn't date.” Sam exclaims and I push down the ache of that implication, “And aren’t you the least bit curious.”

“Oh no, I am,” I nod enthusiastically, laughing lightly, “I want all the details. I was just tryna be nice.”

He snickers, turning back to his brother, “You heard her, we want all the details.”

I swear Dean’s eye practically twitches, “Am I speaking a language you’re not getting here? Dad and I were working a job in Ohio, she was finishing up college. We went out for a coupla weeks.”

I want to ask how long ago this was, was it months before his dad disappeared or a year or more ago, but I hold back on my questioning. “And…?” Sam pushes. Dean shrugs slightly.

“Look, it’s terrible about her dad, but it kinda sounds like a standard car accident. I’m not seeing how it fits with what we do,” Sam reasons, “Which by the way, how does she know what we do?”

Dean doesn't answer again, silently shifting in his seat uncomfortably. The realization hits me like a brick, “Oh. My. God,” I lean forward in my seat almost getting choked out by my seatbelt, “You told her! You broke the number one hunting rule! You know, not telling anyone, ever!”

“More than that!” Sam adds, “It’s our big family rule. Number one. We do what we do and we shut up about it. For a year and a half, I did nothing but lie to Jessica, and you go out with this chick in Ohio a coupla times and you tell her everything?!” I try not to think about my own relationships both romantic and not that rarely ever made it past a couple of months before it ended, not only having to lie about being a hunter but a witch too. Dean stays silent, staring straight ahead, “Dean!” Sam yells.

“Yeah. Looks like,” he finally acknowledges. He continues to stare ahead, pressing his foot down harder on the gas pedal. Sam shakes his head, giving his brother his classic bitchface.

“Oh. He had it bad” I laugh leaning back in my seat, ignoring the sinking and stabbing feeling in my heart. I figured I’d have to keep doing so on this hunt.

The office was dark, the bright sunlight not able to stretch upon the large room not even with the help of glass doors. The place could really open a couple of blinds, let the light shine in.

An old white man with an interesting-looking tie, one of those Western ones with the jewel and black tether, talks to two people a man and a woman their backs towards us. And the way Dean pauses, staring at the woman it isn't hard to deduce she's Cassie. She and the older black gentlemen next to her seem to be having some sort of dispute with the old white guy.

Then suddenly both of the men walk away, clearly frustrated, leaving Cassie to stand there herself. She turns around swiftly, and almost like a perfectly curated romance movie she nearly hits Dean only inches separating the two. I didn't even realize he had moved forward in the time we've been standing here.

Just looking at her I could tell why Dean fell for her, she's beautiful more than that. She could be a model with her beautiful long dark curls framing her face, full lips colored red, and big brown eyes. She must have stepped out of a magazine, everything about her screamed perfect down to her perfectly shaped eyebrows and perfect nose. “Dean,” she says, her voice smooth despite the look of slight apprehension.

He nods and grins, “Hey Cassie.” And they just stare at each other. He's looking at her in a way I’ve never seen him look at anyone before even despite the tension that hung in the air, unspoken words from however long ago.

His eyes seem to glimmer, you’d have to be a fool not to see he still has feelings for her, that they never went away in the first place. And that it’s more than just any feelings, he loves her and that is a hard pill to swallow.

He clears his throat, breaking the trance they were both in, “This is my brother Sam. And my friend Y/N.” She smiles at each of us before her gaze reverts to Dean, not that I could blame her in the slightest.

“Sorry ‘bout your dad,” he says.

“Yeah. Me too,” she answers.

Her family home was beautiful and extraordinarily large, it was a bit disturbing. Though maybe that was because it reminded me of my home before moving to Kansas, or at least what I remember of it. We sat in the sitting room on vintage settees, another reminder of that home–my mother would quite like the look of this cozy room.

Cassie finally comes back adorning a tray of tea cups and a teapot along with the little bowl of sugar and a small pouring cup of milk, could she get any more perfect and wonderful? “My mothers in pretty bad shape. I’ve been staying with her. I wish she wouldn’t go off by herself. She’s been so nervous and frightened. She was worried about Dad,” she explains.

“Why?” Dean asks as she takes a seat across from us. He was watching her every move as if dedicating it to memory, I wonder if he’s thinking ‘She moves in the same manner she used to’ or maybe that it changed. Suddenly I was not so okay with sitting between the boys even though that's almost how we always sat when talking to someone on a hunt, as it made it harder for them to fight and made them slightly more comfortable with squishing into sofas with their large frames. But now, being in the middle I could easily watch how he looked at her, studied her.

She skillfully pours tea into each cup, “He was scared. He was seeing things.”

“Like what?” He asked.

“He swore he saw an awful-looking black truck following him,” she responds carefully.

“A truck, did he see a driver?” I ask, diligently accepting the beautiful teacup she handed me. I take a careful sip of the black tea, of course she would know and pick the perfect tea for guests. Does she have any flaws?

“He didn’t talk about a driver,” she answers, “Just the truck. He said it would appear and disappear. And, in the accident, Dad’s car was dented, like it had been slammed into by something big.”

Sam accepts his cup of tea, “Thanks. Now you’re sure this dent wasn’t there before?” And as predictable as Dean was he looked at his cup weirdly before depositing it back on the tray, that man was not a tea person he’d take a coffee or a beer any day. I think the only reason he drank the tea I gave him when he was sick was because he knew how desperate Sammy and I were.

“He sold cars. Always drove a new one. There wasn’t a scratch on that thing,” she explains, “It had rained hard that night. There was mud everywhere. There was a distinct set of muddy tracks leading from Dad’s car…leading right to the edge, where he went over.” She swallows harshly, bowing her head, “One set of tracks. His.”

Dean’s face softens, eyes filling with sympathy, “The first was a friend of your father's?” She nods, “Best friend. Clayton Soames. They owned the car dealership together. Same thing. Dent. No tracks. And the cops said exactly what they said about Dad. He ‘lost control of his car.’”

I force my brain to rid itself of any thoughts of Dean and Cassie's relationship. This was like any other hunt, something weird is going on and we are here to help, nothing more.

It was weird, cars don't just drive off the road like that and then have newly made dents that match another vehicle. “Is there any reason you can think of as to why your father and his partner might've been targets? Competition?” I ask. She shakes her head, radiating certainty, “No.”

“And you think this vanishing truck ran them off the road?” Sam points out.

“When you say it aloud like that…,” she sighs, “listen, I’m a little skeptical about this…ghost stuff…or whatever it is you guys are into.”

Dean huffs, “Skeptical. If I remember, I think you said I was nuts.”

“That was then,” she bites back. Then they fall back into that thing where they just stare at each other, “I just know that I can’t explain what happened up there. So I called you,” she adds, directing her words only to him. I clear my throat, weary of the bubble they seem to have put around themselves, “You were right in calling” I reasoned softly, “It is very strange and on the off chance it isn’t anything supernatural then it was certainly a cover-up.”

Her perfect eyebrows furrow but before she can respond the sound of the front door opening catches all of our attention, a middle-aged white woman enters through and I assume it's her mother. She shared her mother's eye shape and her nose, but the rest of her she must have gotten from her father.

As if we had gotten caught we all rise from the sofa. Cassie goes over to her mother, taking her arm, “Mom. Where have you been I was so…” her mother cuts her off looking at us, “I had no idea you'd invited friends over.”

“Mom, this Dean, a…friend of mine from…college. ‘His brother Sam and friend Y/N.”

“Well, I won’t interrupt you” her mother smiles nervously.

“Mrs Robinson,” Dean says suddenly, “We’re sorry for your loss. We’d like to talk to you for a minute if you don’t mind.” And as if offended she recoils, “I’m really not up for that right now.”

The morning sun is dimmer today, perfect for the scene we were walking upon. The man Cassie was standing with yesterday, Jimmy, was the newest victim. He died in the same way as the others sometime late last night. Cassie was again arguing with the old white man from yesterday. As we approached I could hear his condescending voice, “Close the man road. The only road in and out of town? Accidents do happen Cassie, and that’s what they are. Accidents.”

We stand beside her, Dean speaking up immediately, “Did the cops check for additional denting on Jimmy’s car, see if it was pushed?”

Without missing a beat and without looking away from Cassie the man asks, “Who’s this?”

“Dean and Sam Winchester, Y/N L/N. Family friends. This is Mayor Harold Todd” She replies smoothly. This man went from just any old white guy to a powerful old white guy, even worse. And he had two first names, you never trust someone with two first names. Reluctantly Mayor Old Guy answers Dean’s initial question, “There’s one set of tire tracks. One. ‘Doesn’t point to foul play.”

Cassie scuffs, “Mayor, the police, and town officials take their cues from you. If you’re indifferent about…”

He cuts her off, “Indifferent!”

“Would you close the road if the victims were white?” she counters.

Oh. Could she get any more iconic?!

“You suggesting I’m racist Cassie?” He spits, “I’m the last person you should talk to like that.”

“And why is that?” She counters, stepping closer to him.

“Why don’t you ask your mother” he answers before walking away. My jaw drops, what the hell is going on in this town?

I huff, blowing a piece of hair out of my face. I really didn’t want to get dressed, for as much as I’ve been trying to ignore the whole Dean and Cassie situation I was feeling horrible.

I sit on the soft motel bed in nothing but my underwear and a nice white button-down, haven given up on dressing. I feel stupid. Incredibly stupid.

Maybe Sam’s words had gotten to me, maybe I had gotten my hopes up without even realizing it.

He loves someone else, and he’s had for a while. I always thought when you love someone those feelings don’t ever truly go away, there's always a part of you with them. They wind up crossing your mind and you wonder where things went wrong. But I guess I never considered this would also apply to Dean, which is cruel to believe within itself. Which is funny too, all these years I’ve spent loving him…But Sam was right he didn’t date so I guess I assumed he never fell for anyone during his countless one-night stands.

I know death is cruel but maybe love is tied with it. Because I feel like someone took my heart and ran with it, leaving me with this void in my chest and an ache so intense that it throbs in its place. It was stupid to think I had a chance to begin with. I knew not to believe I had one in the first place, but somewhere along the line I had completely forgotten about any of that. So much for listening to my past self, if I had maybe I wouldn't be feeling so damn bad.

But I couldn't be mad. Cassie was wonderful in every possible way and you don't need to know her for long to realize that. They seemed perfect for each other really. She was feisty and had no issue putting someone in their place, which I quite admired, and I know Dean could use that every now and then. If she was a jerk I’m sure I’d have no issue disliking her, but she wasn’t! She was impossible to dislike, and it would be horrible of me to hate her just because she harbors feelings for someone that I love or the fact that he loves her back. That wasn't her fault, it was neither of their faults.

Loving someone has to be the hardest thing one could do.

I get up from the bed and put on my skirt. I couldn't sit here forever, the boys would come knocking and I wouldn't have a good excuse as to why I’m in a mood. Quickly I check myself in the mirror, at least I didn’t cry which means I don't gotta redo my makeup, even if it was minimal to begin with.

How do you stop loving someone? I could use that answer.

I knew I loved him for a long time, too long. But I suppose I didn’t realize just how bad it had gotten, how much it had flourished and I had never expected that to be possible. I love him.

I love him and it hurts so much.

How many times did I have the opportunity to tell him? It had to be in the hundreds. Maybe it was better that I didn’t, he loves someone else and I should be happy for them. I am happy for him. He deserves to be loved and be able to love. Yes, I am happy.

I approach the two older men having lunch, focusing on the wet ground and the wholesomeness that is them eating on a pier. “Hi, sorry. Are you Ron Stubbins?” I ask, taking the lead. I needed to throw myself into the work, I needed the distraction. The older man nods looking at us confused, his black cap bobbing with his head. “You were friends with Jimmy Anderson?” Dean follows up.

“Who are you?” Ron responds with, sitting up straighter. He was sizing us up, skeptical of us, which he had every right to be. “We’re Mr. Anderson’s insurance company. We’re just here to dot ‘I’s’ and cross ‘T’s’,” Dean explains, flashing his badge.

“And they needed to send three of you?” He counters. I giggle, tilting my head slightly, “Would you prefer me leaving?” I ask sweetly. And as predictable as men can be he drags his eyes across my body before shaking his head, “No. No. That won’t be necessary.” I ignore the dirty feeling that washes over me and sticks to my bones like a new layer of skin, it was necessary to do that because now he won’t bother questioning us anymore on that topic.

“We were just wondering, had the deceased mentioned any unusual recent experiences?” Sam questions, getting back on topic. Reluctantly Ron looks away from me to look at the man who questioned him, “What do you mean, unusual?”

“Well visions, hallucinations” He elaborates.

“We’re working with local psychologists to broaden our questioning and research,” I explain, trying to clear the confusion from his face, “It’s all very standard.”

“What company did you say you were with?” Ron counters. Maybe he was more on guard than I thought. “All National Mutual” Dean answers smoothly, “Tell me, did he ever mention seeing a truck? A big black truck?”

“What the hell ‘you talking about?” Ron exclaims, “‘You even speaking English?”

Wow, what a lovely guy.

“Son this truck, a big scary monster-looking thing?” Ron's friend suddenly says.

“Yeah actually, I think so” Dean answers. The man hums to himself in thought, please let this interaction be useful. “You’ve heard of something like that?” I ask the man. “I have,” he nods, not bothering to elaborate.

“You have. Where?” Sam pushes.

“Not where,” he finally answers, “When. Back in the ‘60s, there was a string of deaths. Black men. Story goes, they disappeared in a big, nasty, black truck.”

“They ever catch the guy?” I ask. He shrugs, “Never found him. Hell, not even sure they really looked. See there was a time, ‘this town wasn’t too friendly to all its citizens.”

“Thank you” Sam nods.

We walk away, heading back to the Impala. “Well, it seems like history is repeating itself,” I began, “From the lack of investigation and racism down to the–”

“Truck,” Dean says, finishing my sentence. “Keeps coming up doesn’t it?” Sam adds.

“You know, I was thinking. You heard of the Flying Dutchman?” Dean asks.

“Yeah, a ghost ship, infused with the Captian’s evil spirit. It was basically part of him” Sam answers, explaining the lore. Dean nods, “So what if we’re dealing with the same thing? You know, a phantom truck, an extension of some bastard’s ghost, re-enacting past crimes.”

“The victims have been black men” Sam continues the theory. I half-shrug, “I don't know. The town has to have more than a handful of black people, but it only seems to be going after specific people. It’s practically targeting those connected to Cassie and her family. I’m sure there’s some deeper link there.”

“That’s why I think it’s more than that,” Dean says.

“All right. Well, you work that angle, go talk to her,” Sam tells his brother specifically, clearly playing matchmaker. “Yeah, I will,” Dean agrees.

“Oh, and you might also wanna mention that other thing” Sam noted, a playful smile on his lips. Always the meddler. “What other thing?” Dean asks, either genuinely lost or faking it. “The serious, unfinished business?” Sam elaborates. I huff a laugh, “Yeah, seriously Dean it's so painfully obvious. Just talk to the girl.” It pained me to even suggest that, to motivate him in such a way but I want him to be happy, and if that means being with her then so be it.

Dean stops just as we reach the car, going obstinately silent. Sam huffs a laugh this time, “Dean, what is going on between you two?”

“All right, so maybe we were a little more involved than I said,” he finally admits. I give him a pointed look, “Yeah…that was obvious.”

He huffs, “A lot more. Maybe. And I told her our secret, about what we do. And I shouldn’t have.”

“Ah look man, everybody’s gotta open up to someone sometime,” Sam reasons, being a little too understanding compared to how we were only yesterday. “Yeah I don’t,” Dean argues, “It was stupid to get that close. I mean, look how it ended.”

I smile at him softly, hoping any sadness is concealed far behind my eyes, and I realize Sam is giving him the same look except he’s nearly beaming. “Would you both stop!” he shouts. But we don't because this is a side of Dean we’ve never seen before, and it is beautiful even if it's heartbreaking for me. “Someone blink or something!” he exclaims, throwing his hands up.

“You loved her,” I say softly, the gape in my chest deepening at the verbal declaration. Saying it aloud was so much worse. “Oh God,” he groans, turning to the Impala. “You still do!” I call after him.

“You were in love with her, but you dumped her,” Sam states, connecting the pieces. Dean goes silent, staring at the ground, then carefully glances at his brother before reverting his eyes. “Oh wow. She dumped you.”

I have to stop myself from taking in a sharp breath, there was a lot to this he wasn’t telling us. But why would she break up with him if she still has feelings?

“Get in the car” Dean demands, done being “emotional” and open, “Get in the car!”

Sam hands me my hot chocolate, but not even the sweet treat or the soft snow falling just outside can lift my mood. It makes me feel a little better but it does not fix my heart. Dean didn’t come back last night and I know it’s because he spent the night at Cassie’s. I’m happy they worked things out and hopefully had a wonderful night but again it does not fix my heart.

I held the cup tighter, welcoming the immense warmth it brought to my frozen hands as we stepped out of the small coffee shop. The air was crisp yet gentle as the light fluffy snowflakes descended onto us, the cold flakes collecting in my hair. A small smile graced my face, maybe it was making me feel better. I like the cold, preferred it even, I was cozy in my thick turtle neck and my favorite fleeced-lined jacket.

Sam and I walk in comfortable silence side by side, sipping from our cups and basking in the scenery of the unexpected snow. It was early May in Missouri, it really shouldn’t be snowing but I suppose if it could snow here a little in April then early May couldn't be that weird. Plus it was a light snow that likely wouldn't even stick. But the calming scenery is cut in half by an ambulance that speeds past us, sirens blaring. We share a questioning look but ultimately ignore it until two cop cars rush past us heading the same way. That we can’t ignore. With another shared look, we follow after the sirens.

I look out at the macabre scene, the yellow caution tape not having stopped me from investigating thanks to the use of a fake ID. The body had been bagged after countless photos were taken, but the blood of Mayor Todd still stains the streets. It was a gruesome scene, arguably worse than the others in this case his organs squished out like roadkill and, truthfully, that’s what he had become.

“L/N” Sam calls out from just a few feet behind me. I turned around swiftly, the snow whirling around me, Dean stood next to his brother. He came.

I walk over to the two boys, watching Dean’s clear expression of shock masked by annoyance, “‘You gonna ask me a bunch of questions too?” he asks. I look at him confused, “...no” I drag out slowly. His face seems to relax slightly, something unrecognizable passing in his eyes, “Good,” he nods.

“I already know you made up–made out” I add, his face drops, “Anyways, crime scene,” I point behind me.

“Every bone crushed. Internal organs turned to pudding,” Sam explains the case, catching his brother up, “The cops are all stumped, it’s like something ran him over.” The wind picks up again, swirling the snow in its own private storm, the cold will help with the case as it preserves the body longer. “Something like a truck?” Dean asks, gaining his footing in the case.

“Yeah, except of course there’s no tracks” I answer. He nods, rubbing a hand down his jaw and I have to force my eyes away from the movement, “What was the Mayor doing here anyway?”

“He owned the property. Bought it a few weeks ago” Sam says referring to the building site.

“But he’s white, doesn’t fit the pattern,” Dean points out. Sam nods, “Killings didn’t happen up on the road. That doesn’t fit either.”

I shove my hands into my pocket, taking a quick look back at the crime scene before turning back to the boys, “Then it seems like this case is one of revenge.”

I shuffle through the papers in front of me, glad that I was sent to do research at the town's main library rather than be at the newspaper office with the boys and Cassie. She was probably looking at him all sweetly and being a kind person, and I did not wish to see the loving way they looked at each other. And if avoiding that meant having my nose in dusty boxes of court records then that was okay.

I pull out my phone calling Sam directly instead of Dean, the phone rings a couple of times before he picks up, “Hi” I greet, “I got some info.”

The line goes quiet for a second before I hear his voice, “Alright you're on speaker.”

“Ok, so,” I start, balancing my phone between my ear and my shoulder as I look over the papers, “I have courthouse records here, and according to them Mr and Mrs Mayor bought an abandoned property. The previous owner was the Dorian family who owned it for, like, 150 years.”

“Dorian?” Dean repeats back. “Yes.”

His voice grows quieter but still in range enough for me to hear, “Didn’t you say the Dorian family used to own this paper?” he asks someone else in the room. “Along with everything else around here. Real pillars of the town,” Cassie answers. “Right, right” Dean responds followed by the clicking of keys.

“You got something there?” I ask, readjusting my phone.

“Think so” Sam mumbles, seemingly focused on whatever was happening over at the office.

“This Cyrus Dorian. He vanished in April of ‘63. The case was investigated but never solved. It was right around the time the string of murders was going on back then,” Dean informs, adding more information to what that man yesterday had told us.

“Well to add to that information, the Dorian place seemed to be in really bad shape when the Mayber bought it,” I add, “He bulldozed the place.”

“Mayor Todd knocked down the Dorian place?” Dean asks, presumably, Cassie. “It was a big deal” she answers, “One of the oldest houses left. He made the front page.” I huff a breath, everything connecting yet leaving so many questions at the same time. “You got a date, Y/N?” Dean calls back.

“Um,” I hum shuffling the papers around and reading over the words quickly, “‘3rd of last month.” The line goes quiet again the only sound ringing back being the sharp noise of fingers on a keyboard, “Mayor Todd bulldozed the Dorian family home on the 3rd,” Dean finally responds, “The first killing was the next day.”

Pouring the boiled water into the mug I take a quick look back, Dean kneels in front of the shaken-up Cassie rubbing her knee softly and looking at her with pure determination and adoration. I swallow roughly looking back at the mugs in front of me, nearly overspilling and burning myself.

This was not the time to grieve a love that never happened. Cassie called Dean afraid, having seen the black truck. We were here to help, I was making a soothing herbal tea for her and her mother to calm the nerves.

Finishing with the mugs I carefully carry them into the sitting room. Sam takes one from me, gently handing it to her mother. I hand the mug to Cassie, her shaky hands accepting and rattling the cup, Dean immediately moves to sit at her side but it does not stop his protectiveness if anything it amplifies it; he practically radiates it. “Maybe you should throw a couple of shots in here,” she says, half joking.

I huff a laugh, “Well while the effects of alcohol do have the capabilities of easing the central nervous system, when the effects wear off your body will be jolted back from its depressive state which would really only make you feel worse, more anxious as well as stressed.”

She gives me a half, almost awkward, smile before taking a sip from her mug. Did I say too much? Why didn’t someone stop me? Someone should’ve just cut me off, especially if I wasn’t helping.

“You didn’t see who was driving the truck,” Sam says suddenly, pulling the awkwardness out of the air. “It seemed to be no one. Everything was moving so fast. And then it was just gone,” she explains, “Why didn’t it kill us?”

“Whoever was controlling the truck wants you afraid first,” Dean answers. This would explain why at least one of the victims had seen it and truthfully thought they were going mad. “Mrs Robinson,” Sam began, “Cassie said that your husband saw the truck before he died.” Mrs Robinson doesn't answer, seemingly lost in her mind as she shakes. “Mom?” Cassie says carefully, worry laced in her voice.

The older Robinson shakes her head nervously, “Oh. Martin was under a lot of stress. You can’t be sure about what he was seeing.”

“Well after tonight I think we can be reasonably sure he was seeing a truck. What happened tonight, you and Cassie are marked. Ok?” Dean snaps, “Your daughter could die. So if you know something now would be a really good time to tell us about it.”

“Dean…” Cassie warns. But her mother's face contorts in emotion, something in her breaking, “Yes. Yes, he said he saw a truck.”

“Did he know who it belonged to?” Sam asks, taking a seat across from the woman. “He thought he did,” she answers cryptically. “Who was that?” Dean pushes. Her eyes get watery and she sinks into herself, “Cyrus. A man named Cyrus.”

My gaze flickers to the boys, we are all thinking the same thing, I look back at her, “By any chance was it Cyrus Dorian?” I ask carefully. Dean pulls out a newspaper from inside his coat, handing it to the woman. She doesn't shake her head or nod only replying with, “Cyrus Dorian died more than 40 years ago.”

“How do you know he died, Mrs Robinson?” Dean asks softly, “The papers said he went missing. How do you know he died?”

She hesitates, her mouth agape like a fish out of water or in reality that of a person who got caught, “We were all very young,” she says, “I dated Cyrus a while, I was also seeing Martin…in secret of course. Interracial couples didn’t go over too well back then. When I broke it off with Cyrus and when he found out about Martin, I don’t know, he, changed. His hatred. His hatred was frightening.”

“The murder,” Sam voices.

Her voice wobbles, “They were rumors. People of color disappearing into some kind of truck. Nothing ‘ever done,” she swallows shifting in her seat, “Martin and a…Martin and I, we were gonna be, uh, married in that little church near here, but last minute we decided to elope as we didn’t want the attention.” She pushes her short hair out of her face, stressed. “And what became of Cyrus?” I ask.

Endless tears fall down her cheeks, “The day we set for the wedding, was the day someone set fire to the church. There was a children’s choir practicing in there. They all died.” I suppress the gasp that wishes to leave my lips, the room seems to dim with the information. What was meant to be a beautiful day was soiled by the blood of innocents.

“Did the attacks stop after that?” Sam asks softly, careful of her fragile mindset.

A sob escapes from her chest, “No! There was one more. One night that truck came for Martin. Cyrus beat him terribly. But Martin, you see, Martin got loose. And he started hitting Cyrus and he just kept hitting him and hitting him.”

“Why didn’t you call the cops?” Dean pushes. She continues to cry, “This was forty years ago. He called on his friends, Clayton Soames and Jimmy Anderson, and they put Cyrus’ body into the truck and they rolled it into the swamp at the end of his land and all three of them kept that secret all of these years.”

“And now all three are gone,” Sam acknowledges. This all confirms the theory of a vengeful spirit. “And so is Mayor Todd,” Dean adds, “Now he said that you of all people would know he is not a racist. Why would he say that?”

“He was a good man,” Mrs Robinson answers, “He was a young deputy back then investigating Cyrus’ disappearance. Once he figured out what Martin and the others had done he…he did nothing, because he also knew what Cyrus had done.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Cassie asks, her voice hard yet full of emotion. I couldn't imagine what was going on in her head, to find out something like this–“I thought I was protecting them. And now there’s no one left to protect,” her mother reasons.

“Yes, there is” Dean counters, fiercely. His green eyes harden with determination as he looks at Cassie.

I sit on the cold hood of the Impala, gently kicking my legs back and forth watching Dean pace in front of me. Sam leans against the car next to me, his arms crossed as he too watches his brother, “Ah, my life was so simple. Just school, exams, papers on polycentric cultural norms…”

I look at him with an amused smile, “I have no idea what that last part is but it sounds fun!” That stops Dean in his tracks for just a half of a second, he points at us, “No it doesn’t. I saved him from a boring existence.”

“Yeah, occasionally I miss boring” Sam reasons. I nod enthusiastically, “Honestly, we have not had a normal day in like months. Kinda miss it.”

Dean brushes our light complaining off, “So this killer truck–”

“I miss conversations that didn’t start with ‘this killer truck’” Sam quips with a dramatic sigh. I failed to hold back my laughter, Dean laughs lightly and for a brief moment, things feel how they used to, “Well this Cyrus guy. Evil on a level that infected even his truck. When he died, the swamp became his tomb, and his spirit was dormant for 40 years.”

“So what woke it up?” Sam asks.

“The construction on his house. Or the destruction,” Dean points out.

“Right. Demolition or remodeling can awaken spirits, make them restless” Sam recalls. His brother hums a ‘yes’, nodding.

“Like that theater in Illinois, ya know?” Sam references, and I in fact had no idea what he was talking about. “And the guy that tore down the family homestead, Harold Todd, is the same guy that kept Cyrus’ murder quiet and unsolved,” Dean adds, bringing it back to the case at hand.

“So now his spirit is awakened and out for blood,” Sam acknowledges.

“Yeah, I guess. Who knows what ghosts are thinking anyway” Dean shrugs.

“Wait, does this mean we have to go swimming in that swamp?” I ask. I mean if we had to salt and burn the bones then we would need said bones which are in a swamp, how nice. Dean smiles at me, I know that look. “No” I warn, pointing at him like an animal that did something wrong. “You said it” he rationalizes.

“Noooo” I whine a pout on my lips, “Do I have to do it alone?”

His wicked smile deepens, “‘Course not, Sammy’s gonna be with you.”

Sam’s shoulders drop, “Man,” he sighs.

Suddenly a familiar figure approaches, her hands tucked into the back pocket of her jeans. Dean stands up straighter, “Hey.” She smiles sadly, “Hey. She’s asleep. Now what?”

“Well, you should stay put, look after her…and we’ll be back. Don’t leave the house,” Dean explains, looking at her in that way that hurts my heart. But she smiles, any worry melting off her face, “Don’t go getting all authoritative on me. I hate it.”

Dean glances back at us, Sam looks down grinning acting as if neither of us could hear the conversation. He turns back to Cassie mumbling something I can't quite make out but whatever it was must have been good because he slowly leans in to kiss her. I drop my head and gaze at the very interesting ground, trying my best to ignore the sound of their intensifying making out. A pang of jealousy, longing, and pain shoots through my chest. If the ground wanted to just open up and consume me now I wouldn’t complain, I’d even help it and just throw myself in it wouldn’t have to work very hard. Sam clears his throat, I look up but Dean just holds out a finger to wait as he brings Cassie even closer.

I drop my eyes again.

Loving someone never hurt so bad. Loving him never hurt so bad.

Was it wrong to love him? Was this always going to be my fate? To see him evermore with other girls, loving them more than he could ever love me.

“You two comin’ or what?” Dean asks. I look up once more and this time his lips aren’t on Cassie.

I tug on the chain again, making sure it's secure, my hands getting wet in the process. I wipe my icky hands off on my jeans as I back away, “Alright he’s good,” I call out to Sam who stands feet away from me, closer to the butt of the pickup Dean was driving. He gives a thumbs up to his brother who begins to move the car forward, the pickup moving slowly in the weight of the heavy truck and water pressure.

We had already gotten it up a lot, but it had gotten stuck on the side of the swamp so we had to readjust its hold to get it the rest of the way up.

The years in the water had diminished it. The old black truck was now more like a rust bucket, remains of the swamp water spilling out from the seams. “All right. A little more…little more,” Sam leads, “All right, stop.”

The engine shuts off and Dean heads to the Impala, he pulls it open rummaging through the various weapons. “Now I know what she sees in you” Sam declares with a snap of his finger, meaning he finally understood what that look in her eyes meant. “What?” Dean asks.

“Come on man, you can admit it. You’re still in love with her” Sam clarifies. I nod even though the implications hurt, “Plus it’s not like no one else knows. So the only person you’re hiding from is yourself.”

Dean looks up from the trunk, “Uhh, can we focus please.”

I purse my lips, “Yeah…focusing has never really been our strong suit…” A container of salt is pressed into my chest, “Hold that” Dean says swiftly.

His expression hardens, all jokes put to rest as he dishes out items, “Gas” he says first, handing the large container to his brother, “Flashlights,” he lists out next filling my empty hand with one.

“Ok, let’s get this done,” he quips, closing the trunk.

We trudge back over to the rusty truck, our flashlights leading our way across the grass. Dean places his hand on the handle and I must wonder how he isn’t grossed out by just the feeling of the flaked paint and rotting metal. He glances at us in a silent ‘you ready?’ We give a nod and he opens the door.

A decaying wet corpse falls out the door and onto the soft grass, a small gush of water following its lead. I leap back like a scared cat, clasping a hand to my mouth and nose the decomposition of the body as well as its marinating in swamp water left a putrid smell. One perhaps worse than anything I've ever smelt before which was saying something considering what I’ve hunted.

“All right let’s get to it,” Dean says. Sam pours the gasoline all over the body, careful not to get it close to us and I jump in with the salt, opening the little latchet to sprinkle the small white crystals over the open-mouthed corpse. The satisfying scratch and flick of a match sounds softly beside me in the quiet night followed by the drop of the matchstick on the body. In mere seconds the remains go up in flames, the warm glow of the fire reflecting on the truck just beside it. I hoped no one would come looking over here with the whirl of smoke twirling above us, the heat powerful enough for me to take another step back.

“Think that’ll do it?” Sam voices, staring down at the burning corpse. But his question is followed by the revving of an engine and two blinding lights pointed at us. Without looking in the direction I knew it was the ghost truck. “I guess not,” Dean quips.

“So burning the body had no effect on that thing?” the younger Winchester asks. “Sure it did. Now it’s really pissed,” Dean responds. I glare at him, “I don't know if this is the time for cool jokes.”

“But Cyrus’ ghost is gone, right Dean?” Sam asks, a hint of panic in his voice as the tuck stares us down. But his brother doesn't answer right away, instead, he starts to walk away, “Apparently not the part that’s fused with the truck.”

I go on my tip toes trying to peak into the truck, maybe we missed something like a severed piece of him that didn’t spill out but before I can vocalize this Sam is calling out to his brother, “Where are you going?” I turn around, catching up to the boys, “Goin’ for a little ride,” Dean answers as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “What?!” Sam and I exclaim in unison, “That’s a horrible idea!” I add. But he ignores our concern, “Gonna lead that thing away. That busted piece of crap, you gotta burn it.”

“How the hell are we supposed to burn a truck, Dean?” Sam asks, voice raising in volume. But being the determined man he is he shrugs, “I don’t know. Figure something out.” He rounds the car, opening the driver's door, “At least let one of us come with you, this is horribly dangerous,” I try to reason.

His eyes move up and down my face, before he settles on my eyes once more, “‘Exactly why you’re not comin’ with.” Before I can come up with a retort on how stubborn he is he settles himself into the car, closing the door behind him. I look to Sam for any support on this but he just stares at the car muttering, “Figure some–something–”

I rack my brain for ideas because Dean wasn’t going to listen and would rather be all hot and stubborn than be reasonable, “An explosion?” I suggest. Sam shakes his head, “No, that wouldn’t work. Parts would go everywhere and everything has to burn.”

I huff, frustrated, “I hate when you’re right.”

Dean reverses the Impala and takes off, the engine revering. As predictable as possible the ghost truck roars after him. I try to rack my brain for more ideas, even if we could suddenly light a truck on fire it would take too long for it to burn completely, “Sam, please tell me you got some idea rolling around in there.” He doesn't answer, lost in concentration with his bottom lip between his teeth.

My phone suddenly rings in my pocket, I pull it out swiftly seeing Dean’s name glowing. I flip it open bringing it to my ear, “You okay?” I say immediately. “Uh…yeah,” He says but I remain not convinced, “what are we doing?”

I look at Sam, panicking slightly, “Um, Sam what are we doing?”

He pulls out his phone, “You gotta give me a minute.” He presses his phone to his ear, “He says to give him a minute, I think he’s callin’ someone.”

“I don’t have a minute!” He half yells. “Dude, I don't know!” I panic, “Just…just don’t die, okay?”

“Trying here sweetheart.” I look back at Sam who has stepped away, I give him a hand motion of ‘please hurry up.’ He nods, coming closer to feed me info, “Ask him where he is.” I pull my phone away from my ear putting him on speaker instead, “Okay, Dean where the hell are you?”

“In the middle of nowhere with a killer truck on my ass!” he exclaims, “It’s like it knows I put the torch to Cyrus.”

“Listen to me, this is important” Sam orders, calmly, “I have to know exactly where you are.” Seemingly taking his advice he goes quiet for a beat, “Decatur Road, about two miles off the highway.”

“Ok. Headed East?” Sam follows up.

“Yes!”

A rattle and a bang followed by skitting noise sounds from the phone followed by cursing, “You son of a bitch!”

“Sam!” I yell, begging him to hurry up. “Ok, uhhh, turn right! Up ahead, turn right.” Again the line falls silent, “You make the turn?” Sam questions softly. My heart beats faster with each silent moment that passes. “Yeah, I made the turn!” Dean yells, “You need to move this thing along a little faster.”

“All right, you see a road up ahead?” Sam asks.

“No!... Wait. No, yes, I see it.”

“Ok turn left.”

“Wha..?” Dean half says before he goes quiet again the only sound coming from the line being more screeching and shuffled movement. “All right, now what? He finally responds.

“You need to go seven-tenths of a mile and then stop,” Sam explains. I looked at him strangely, noticing he wasn’t on the phone anymore, but what the hell was he talking about? “Stop?” Dean voices.

“Exactly seven-tenths Dean” Sam repeats.

“God, I hope you know what you’re talking about,” I tell the man beside me. “Me too” he mumbles over the sound of his brother repeating the words ‘seven-tenths.’ I look at him my mouth agape, “You wha–”

“Dean, you still there?” He cuts me off, focusing on his brother again. “Yeah,” Dean responds.

“What’s happening over there?” I ask, not knowing was killing me. “It’s just staring at me,” he answers carefully, “what do I do?”

“Just what you’re doing, bringing it to you,” Sam replies.

“Wha–” Dean began before cutting himself off, the line going quiet for the umpteenth time, “Come on. Come on,” he mumbled quietly but just loud enough for the phone to pick it up. My heart thumps in my chest, anticipation and fear running through my veins as well as something else from those two stupid words–something had to be wrong with me to find that hot now of all times.

The line is silent, for one beat, then another, then another…I grip my phone tighter, “Dean? Dean, are you there? ‘You okay?”

“Where’d it go?” he responds with a mix of shock and confusion. “Dean, you’re where the church was,” Sam explains. “What church!” he freaks.

“The place Cyrus burned down. Murdered all those kids,” Sam clarifies.

“There’s not a whole lot left,” Dean responds.

“Church ground is hallowed ground, whether the church is still there or not. Evil spirits cross over hallowed ground, and sometimes they’re destroyed, so I figured, maybe, that would get rid of it,” Sam explains. I hit his arm, “That was a hunch?!”

Dean adds in with the lecturing, “Maybe? Maybe!! What if you were wrong?!”

“Huh,” Sam hums, “Honestly, that thought hadn’t occurred to me.”

I glare at him sharply, hitting his arm again as I say, “You’re too sassy for your own good.” He laughs, a boyish grin on his face.

I wait in the back, Sam in the driver seat for Dean to say his goodbyes. I liked the back seat, more now than ever because being in the front would mean being able to see out the side mirror and watch Dean kiss the woman he loves and say a goodbye I was sure he didn’t want.

Life was being really unfair and uncool.

I bury my nose in my new book, it would be better to just escape into this world than have to deal with my feelings here in the real world. My feelings in the real world were not fun, they were depressing and hurt…a lot. But no amount of ink on paper formed into beautifully crafted words could fill the gaping hole in my heart, still, I tried as there was nothing else to do.

What is worse is knowing there will never be a chance for me to be loved by him, at least not in the way I do, because there will always be a place in his heart for her. He’ll think of her all the time, dream about her, and perhaps see her in the breeze. His heart belongs to her, and possibly always has.

I needed to accept that. The sooner I did the quicker the pain would go away. I couldn't go on believing I had a chance I needed to huff the flame out now.

No more hope. No more love. We’re friends, always have been, and always will be. That will have to be enough. I couldn’t love him anymore, not if it meant feeling this much pain. I wouldn’t accept his touches anymore for they gave me more hope than I’d like to admit.

No. I was wrong.

Worse of all is knowing that I can’t just stop loving him. Let it be the Gods' fault or the stars or whatever it is I’m meant to believe in but my heart has long been his and always will be. I could never love someone the way I love him, I wasn’t capable of that. Let it be that our love was written in the star's constellations that it was undecided by me or him for my love had to transcend the binds of that nonsense.

I loved him and he did not love me and maybe it was that which I had to accept because to stop loving him would mean to stop my heart from beating. Though even then I suspect not even the afterlife could keep me from my eternal love. And maybe that was pathetic or stupid, especially since he did not care for me in such a way, but it was the truth and no one has ever claimed truth to be a beautiful thing.

I’m brought back to reality with a bump. When did we leave and start driving? I look out the window, we had already made it to the highway…I look at the boys, but both seem fine. Ok then.

“I like her,” Sam says, and suddenly I wish to be lost back in the state I was in moments ago. I would love not to hear or be a part of this conversation. “Yeah,” Dean replies, seemingly just to get his brother to stop.

“You meet someone like her, doesn’t it make you wonder if it’s worth it? Putting everything else on hold, doing what we do?” Sam asks innocently perhaps trying to get him to understand what he had felt with his girlfriend. But something flickers in his face and suddenly he’s making eye contact with me in the rearview mirror, his eyes written in apology as if it just hit him now what all of this was doing to me. It was that puppy dog look.

I smile sadly at him, giving him a curt nod in a silent ‘it’s okay.’ His gaze flickers back to the road.

Dean leans forward pulling sunglasses from the glove box, he puts them on carefully ignoring his brothers' initial question, “Why don’t you wake me up when it’s my turn to drive?” He slouches down in his seat with a sigh. I shake my head, roll my eyes, and go back to my book.

We were leaving Missouri and all would be well, or as well as they could be.

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quitealotofsodapop · 9 months ago

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Just read through the MKEgged tag, and where's Redson? I want to see the roller-coaster he goes on of "A baby!? Wait, who's the father If it can't be me? Oh, okay, no other parent. I'll step in and help, what do you mean the pregnancy has a high mortality rate!?"

Just this guy trying to figure out what he's feeling and how to handle things with this baby, because yay baby, but also No you're not allowed to die!"

Prev.

haha yes! XD

Red Son's bull-brain tells him "Whomst is the father!?" immediately, even if him and MK aren't in a fully romantic relationship yet. His infatuation tells him that only *he* can father Noodle Boy's progeny!

The fact that the pregnancy was magical in nature calms him down only a little bit... until he learns that MK's true species have a high maternal mortality rate due to this unique form of reproduction.

Red Son, busting on into MK's prenatal appointment: "Noodle Boy!! Who said that you're allowed to die!? I strictly forbid it!"

Red Son goes out of his way to investigate what knowledge is available on Stone Monkeys so he can devise a way to help MK survive and recover. He knocks on the door of every soul he can think of who would hold some idea of what to do; Lao Tzu, The Gold Star of Venus, and even Guanyin herself.

The alchemist and planet god both only had second-hand accounts of how Stone Monkeys lived, but provided copies of their literature all the same.

Approaching her old master was a little awkward, but the Bodhisattva Guanyin is a patron god of safe childbirth, and Red Son wanted to have their input on the matter. To her surprise, Guanyin was equally concerned for MK's well-being - and had already offered to attend the birth to ensure that they could monitor MK and the baby. Red Son learns from Guanyin that Sun Wukong himself had such questions many centuries ago, but curiously dropped the matter sometime after the Journey. Former master and disciple share a warm goodbye, finally reunited by their worry over a noodle monkey-boy.

Xiwangmu was still mourning the loss of her husband, so Red Son thought it improper to bother her on such a matter - but clearly Lao Tzu or Gold Star blabbed. The very next time Red Son stepped into the Celestial Realm, he found himself swept into a suffocating hug by the Queen Mother of the West.

Xiwangmu, weeping: "Oh, my little fire opal. You are so proactive! Scouring the Heavens and Earth to find a way to save your mate and child!" Red Son, confused: "EHH!?!?"

Turns out, the Queen Mother had a gut-reaction to hearing that her grandson's beloved ("WHO TOLD!?" shrieks Red) Monkey Prince was pregnant. And that reaction was; "GREAT-GRANDCUBS?!?!"

Red Son barely has a second to object. The Queen Mother weeps how the Jade Emperor is to miss the birth of his first great-grandchild, but that the pregnancy is a light in a very dark time for her and the court. She orders her court secretary to give Red Son unlimited access to the celestial library so that he can continue his research.

After the whirlwind of discovering that apparently even Heaven itself blames him for MK's Egg, Red Son turns to only two known members of the Noodle Boy's species.

Sun Wukong and the Six Eared Macaque.

The Macaque was the most difficult to get information out of since he kept slipping into the shadows whenever Red brought up questions on his species. Luckily one attempt/battle (it got out of hand) lead to the appearance of Sun Wukong on the scene.

Wukong: "What's the issue, firecracker?" Red Son, holding thick notepad: "I need to understand your species so I can devise a way to prevent MK's stone egg from killing him!" Macaque, turns off powers: "Oh! Why didn't you say so? I thought you were trying to dissect me or something!" XD Wukong: "We know almost everything there is on our species, so fire away kiddo." Red Son: "Yes! Finally! Question 1; in the case of self-spawned eggs, is the child a genetic clone of the parent?" Wukong & Macaque: (*both shake their heads*) Wukong: "Oh no. Its not a clone. You see, the Egg absorbs Dao from it's surroundings - not just it's parent. So it steals bits of DNA from whatever troop happens to be around. You know like friends, family-" Macaque, slyly: "Former mates." Wukong: "Former ma- hey!" (*glares*) Red Son, thinking: "So an additional source of life energy could supplement MK's own depleted supply?" Wukong: "Yeah... but the healthiest option is usually a dear friend or life partner. Someone who can cling to them and supply the most juice. Also helpful if the pregnant person wants their kid to look like their fave person." Macaque, knowing smile: "Or... whoever they have a big crush on." Red Son: (*hair-flames briefly flicker pink in blush as he imagines a red-furred baby monkey with calf hooves*) Red Son: "Wait. How come you both know so much about this topic? I know Sun Wukong has access to the celestial library, but Macaque has been barred from the palace grounds since the rebellion! Why do you share the same knowledge?" Wukong & Macaque: (*both start spluttering and choking on air*) Wukong, trying to find words: "You see-! We uh...!" Macaque: (*fades into background at 50% opacity, hiding face in scarf*) Red Son, realising: "Ah. I see. Thank you for your input, gentlemen." Wukong: "Where are you going now?" Red Son: "I'm going over to Noodle Boy's place. I have been invited for company." (*Red Son leaves. Macaque phases back in*) Wukong: "Well. The Egg might not be her doing. But she certainly wishes it was." Macaque: "I'm just glad they didn't try getting more out of us." Wukong, cheeky grin: "Like what? How we both know so much about Stone Eggs because once upon a time we wanted some of our own?" Macaque: (*hides face in scarf again*) "Shut up, peaches."

As for the Demon Bull parents? Well..

PIF, calmly writing letters: "Even if the child was not made the traditional fashion, we will both adore them all the same. I expect any grandchildren of mine to be as beloved as a prince or princess ought to be." DBK, arms full of baby shower gifts: "Make sure to note the exact hour, day, month, and year of the child's birth! It's very important for divining the calf's fortune!" Red Son, flames twitching: "Are you two-!? ARE YOU PLANNING A ROYAL BIRTH ANNOUNCEMENT!?" PIF: "Do not shout dear. My mother visited shortly after you left. Seems that a certain child of mine has been asking around about celestial monkeys and safe magical birthing practices, and it's stirred the court's rumour mill. Me and the simians are planning a formal announcement once the child arrives." Red Son, blushing pink: "I would have gone through the same effort if I only considered them a mere ally." PIF: "I know you would. But a mere ally, does not donate so much life energy to the parent in hopes that the child becomes theirs." Red Son: (*blush grows even bigger, flames spit embers onto the surrounding furniture*) PIF, brushes embers off of desk: "Hopefully, Xiaotian doesn't experience the terrible heartburn I did whilst carrying you." Red Son: "Mother!" DBK, wincing with sympathy: "Only exacerbated by your cravings, my love! You had a great desire for charcoal and spiced meat on the bone."

MK texts Red Son a few hours later asking if he'd like to go out for some barbecue; "Just started craving it for some reason. Oh! And we should make sure to get cheese tea too! Acid reflux acting up rn and I need something to quench the flame."

Red is so down bad.

It's not all sunshine and baby monkeys though - there is genuine worry across the families about MK's condition. None more so than the men who raised him.

(*Red is leaving MK's place after a hang out session, when a certain pig-man in the kitchen speaks up*) Pigsy: "Hey... thanks for being there for him." Red Son, surprised: "Huh? Oh! No problem..." Pigsy: "I know you like him. Like, like-like him. I don't exactly approve but.... you've been going out of your way to find ways to help me. Make sure he..." Pigsy: (*trails off, eyes puffy*) Red Son: (*quietly approaches, awkwardly places a hand on Pigsy's shoulder*) Pigsy: "Promise me something." Red Son: "Ok." Pigsy: "If the worst happens... I want you to still be there. For them. Not just because you like him. But because you really care about him and his kid." Red Son, certain: "I do. I truly care for Xiaotian. And I wish to be there for him through it all. And if the unthinkable were to occur, I would still be there for them." Pigsy, wipes tears with sleeve: "Thanks, punk." Red Son: "Again, no problem." Pigsy, changing tone: "Now! What's with this letter I got saying MK and his baby are gonna be presented to the Heavenly and Infernal Court?" Red Son, remembers previous encounters: "oops."

Once he fully explains the misunderstanding in heaven, Pigsy whacks Red with a spatula.

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weirdsht · 11 months ago

Text

Disillusioned 7 . Truth (2)

a/n: double update this week (I'll upload another chapter tom) to lament over my fever getting higher lol (I'm actually procrastinating my school works)

tags: frustrated rosalyn, again abuse as the norm, cursing, detrimental thoughts and ways of living, unhealthy coping mechanisms and trauma responses

English isn’t my first language so there will be grammatical errors

Pls don't repost my work anywhere without my permission

Constructive criticisms and any kind of interaction are more than welcome

Requests are currently closed but my ask are still open (read pinned)

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Navigation Masterlist prev . next

Rosalyn is someone who threw away her royal position to pursue her dreams of being a mage.

A decision that removed her from her family.

The mage thinks that she would be sad by this if it wasn’t for the fact that she immediately found a new family to be with.

It's amazing if you ask her. It was as if the gods saw that she needed someone to trust after almost being killed and gave it to her in the form of a socially awkward swordsman.

And then almost right after she put her trust in Choi Han, she gained a little brother named Lock.

From there it spiralled. She met Cale and all the other people under him. She got the support she needed to make her dreams come true. On top of that, her relationship with her blood relatives is still good.

Overall it was nice. Especially when Cale seems to keep making friends everywhere and expanding this family-esc circle they have.

That was why when Cale brought another person home Rosalyn thought it would be the same thing. Thought that in a few days' time, that person would be part of their group, their family.

Well in a way they were.

Rosalyn has come to see _____ as her younger sibling, the same way she views Lock. She has taken it upon herself to help the healer acclimatize to their new group and environment in general.

However, every time Rosalyn thinks she’s making progress, _____ seems to go back into their shell.

At first, the woman thought they were just socially awkward. Perhaps shaken because their family literally just threw them to their death.

Her first mistake was assuming it was as trivial as that.

Her second mistake was not getting the full story.

If she had done that then maybe she wouldn’t be this shocked so early in the morning.

Well in her defence she was expecting Cale to talk about some sort of plan for when they meet the dragon. Why else would he gather the group this early right before they are set to travel to the dragon’s lair?

Apparently not.

As soon as everyone has settled Cale brought to everyone’s attention that they didn’t know how _____’s powers work.

This made Rosalyn confused. Because quite frankly what does this have to do with… well anything?

But oh god, the more _____ explains their abilities the more she understood why this has to be said now.

This should have been explained way earlier. Because what do they mean that _____ essentially absorbs their patients' wounds?

It made the mage look back at all the people the Medicus had healed. All the sickness and wounds they had to absorb.

And shit.

She remembered that _____ has been doing this since they were 9 years old. Maybe even earlier as she discovered that the famous story of their adoption is fabricated.

Rosalyn may have only known _____ for a short while, but that’s her little sibling goddammit.

A sibling she admires because of how helpful and selfless they are. Traits they possess that Rosalyn is now starting to resent.

The redhead shot a pointed look at the other redhead in the room. A look that says Rosalyn wants her questions answered. Cale responded with another eye contact that seemed to say “Later”.

“Just what-”

Cale put his hand up to stop Rosalyn from speaking. Everyone was still in the room minus _____. The redhead had sent them out as they hadn’t finished packing their things yet.

“To put it shortly, I need you all to keep an eye on _____.”

The man goes on to explain how the healer kind of lacks… common sense, for lack of a better term. It has something to do with how they were brought up.

“We don’t need to look after them like a child. Just make sure they won’t go overboard using their abilities. No guarding them like a hound either.”

It's a no-brainer that the last part was for the visibly enraged Choi Han. He was still visibly enraged but nodded as he understood why Cale didn't want the healer to have guards as of now.

Rosalyn is sure that Choi Han is going to be overprotective of _____ in some way. Not that she blames him.

Cale went to stand up, signifying that the meeting was over. The rest followed and started filing out of the room.

Everyone except Rosalyn.

She has questions and she’s going to get answers.

“Young master, how long have you known?”

“Since last night.”

“Were they deliberately hiding it?”

“No, they just didn’t think they could bring it up when no one was asking.”

“How are we supposed to- haaa”

“Blame their shitty family.”

On their way to the dragon’s lair, Rosalyn had a lot on her mind. Lots of puzzle pieces to put together.

Now that Rosalyn knows the full story everything started to make sense.

Made her realize just how hurt her sibling had been.

Just how much they suffered before Cale met them.

It made Rosalyn look back to some of the habits she noticed _____ has. Like how they almost seem apprehensive to talk to people in authority. How their hands and voice tremble when they thought they made a mistake. How they are so intent on healing everyone and low-key seem scared if a person’s condition is out of their jurisdiction.

How they take everything with apprehension. Like they can’t believe that they are being given things. Even when those things are basic necessities like a good plate of food. How they teared up when Raon gave them that red teddy bear from the night market. How apparently that was the first toy– no, the first thing, that they have ever received in their entire life for free. The first gift they get to indulge in.

How they are too independent for Rosalyn’s liking. How they always insist that the servants have better things to do than assist them. How they refuse to get treated when sick or injured despite them treating everyone else.

How they never speak unless spoken to first. How they will literally just stand there, bleeding and not saying a word unless they are given some sort of permission. This one frustrates Rosalyn so much. Not only does she want to hear more from the healer, but she also thinks they have so many good ideas. Before she let it go she thought they were shy, but that’s slowly going to change from now on.

How even when they were suffering from nightmares they were silent. How on one of those nights they looked more scared that Rosalyn saw them being vulnerable, as if it's a sin to have nightmares. To be vulnerable and lean on others. How on that night Rosalyn had to explain that there’s nothing wrong with asking for help after such things. How _____ nodded but seemed apprehensive. How Rosalyn knew that after that night they still suffered silently. Merely holding the mage’s hand as solace and comfort on the rare nights the healer allows themself to embrace the help presented to them.

How Rosalyn found out now that it was because _____ have been taught that since they don’t scar then they must not have pain. Since they only get a percentage of their patient’s pain then it would be arrogant and privileged of them to complain.

How they–

How–

Fuck.

Rosalyn is going to get revenge for _____.

She’s going to make sure she gets it done one way or another.

a/n at the end: i wasn't quite sure how to get the point across that rosalyn was angry and frustrated beyond belief so I made her curse as she isn't really someone who's portrayed to curse a lot

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iwasntstable · 8 months ago

Text

𝗡.𝗦. | 𝗡𝗢𝗪𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗘 𝗧𝗢 𝗚𝗢 | 𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗣𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗧𝗪𝗢 (ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴛᴡᴏ)

Series Summary: You knew the decision to follow your father into the so-called 'most dangerous Ward' was a dangerous one, but you had to do anything and everything possible to keep him alive. He's the only family you have left. Growing evermore reckless after the death of your mother and blinded by his lust for retribution, this decision is one that will alter the course of your life forever. And the life of a half-ghoul half-human who never thought he'd find himself entangled with the daughter of a former CCG Investigator.

NOWHERE TO GO is a multi-chapter story set in the Tokyo Ghoul universe, centring around Half-Ghoul!Noah and Human!Reader.

Chapter Content Tags: Graphic depictions of gore including: treatment of wounds, administration of stitches, blood, mentions of bruising, mentions of an attack. Depictions of anxiety.

Word Count: 6k.

Note: please be aware this story is set in the universe of Tokyo Ghoul, before the events of the manga and anime. it will, however, contain references to content found in the source material. specific content warnings will always be applied at the beginning of each chapter.

✶ [join the NOWHERE TO GO taglist.] ⓘ [GLOSSARY]

➔read on AO3➔➔ PREV　/　NEXT [coming soon..]

CREDIT › image — 'Tokyo Ghoul:re - Chapter 54' - 石田スイ (Sui Ishida). › number divider — @saradika-graphics. › image edit — @iwasntstable (me). › star divider — @saradika-graphics. › short grey divider — @saradika-graphics. › Tokyo Ghoul — created by 石田スイ (Sui Ishida).

“We just keep running into each other,” he smiles that same smile that made your heart skip a beat in the café, but instead of giving you butterflies, this time it fills you with dread.

You say nothing, words failing you entirely. All you can do is stare. His wide brown eyes inspect you back just as closely. How could it be him? The kind man from the bookstore café that encouraged you and asked your name—the same man who was now stained with blood and tried to kill your father twice. Noah.

His eyes flit to your arm, then back to your face. “You’re injured,” he states calmly. The reminder of the wound causing it to sting and throb under your clothes. You press your hand to it defensively, a weak spot you wanted to defend. “Let me help?” He offers, hands raised with palms facing you.

“Why would you do that?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Once again, you’re lost for words. The answer to that question was so glaringly obvious, you almost couldn’t believe he asked it. “Look, I’ll call a friend here who’s better at stitching wounds than I am, and then you can leave. But in exchange, I’d like you to answer some of my questions.”

“Leave? You’re not… keeping me here?”

Confusion crosses his features. “What? No. I’m not kidnapping you or anything. You can leave whenever you want,” his expression softens. “You’re injured. I wasn’t just going to leave you bleeding in the street. I want to help, and I want to talk.”

You mull over your options in your mind. There’s no way you could run, not with your current injuries, and fighting your way out without a weapon is out of the question too. He said you could leave, but you’re not sure if you believe that. What could a ghoul possibly stand to gain from letting a human live?

Noah notices your hesitation, opens the front door, and steps aside. “Go. This isn’t a trick. I’m not going to chase you down. I only want to help and ask you my questions. I’m sure you must have questions for me too.”

He was right. A million questions raced in your mind—so many you didn’t even know which to prioritise. And you didn’t know how much longer you could stay on your feet before your legs buckled again. “Okay,” you concede.

Noah nods, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’m going to text my friend, okay? He’ll be able to take a look at your arm. His name is Nick.” He pulls his phone from his pocket, no idea how it survived the skirmish in the alley. You eye it cautiously, that uneasy feeling in your bruised stomach telling you this was still some kind of trap. “Just one person,” Noah reassures. “Nobody else.”

You nod, though you have no way of knowing you could trust him, and he types out a message, slipping his phone away again once he’d hit send. He closes the front door again, leaving it unlocked, then crosses the room towards the couch with wide strides, pulling the plastic sheet from the furniture and screwing it into a ball to toss it into the corner. “Sit, if you’d like.”

You didn’t trust him, but you had to take your weight off your feet. You allow yourself to hold onto the back of the couch for support as you move around the couch, lowering yourself carefully, every fibre of your body protesting every miniscule movement. With the strain finally off your body, you feel immediate relief, but though you were sitting, your breath still felt laboured. Fatigue moved in like a dense fog.

“There’s no food here, but can I get you some water?” Noah asks, standing several paces away from you. You nod, too tired to speak and knowing refusing his offer would only serve to worsen your condition.

He moves to the kitchen, shedding his jacket and draping it over the back of a chair, those tattooed arms you’d noticed in the café on full display in his t-shirt. He opens a couple of cupboards before finally finding one with a glass inside. The kitchen was just as empty as the front room, a basic wooden table with two chairs, and a couple of appliances on the counters. He rinses the glass in the sink, then brings it full of water over to you, handing it over carefully. You try to stifle the tremor in your hand when you reach out to take it.

“Do you mind if I sit too?” He asked as you took a large mouthful.

His politeness confused you. Why was a creature so violent and dangerous being so courteous and respectful? You didn’t understand his motivations; what could he possibly stand to gain? Despite your doubts, you nod again, gesturing to the space beside you.

He takes the spot next to you, angled to face you. “Can I see your arm?” He asks.

With nothing to lose—except probably your life—you take another sip of the water, place the glass on the ground, and pop the buttons of your jacket with your good hand, shrugging the garment off and cautiously pulling it down your injured arm. As the fabric descends, it reveals your entire arm is stained red with blood right down to your fingertips. You’d assumed that was from the wounds on your hands.

The cut itself was long; you couldn’t see exactly how long from the angle, but it appeared to be around four inches in length, starting towards the front of your bicep and twisting downwards around the side towards your elbow. The deepest part was definitely at the centre of the wound; your arm did nothing to block the path of the ukaku ghouls’s shards as it sliced right through you like a hot knife to butter.

“It’s quite deep,” Noah said as he peered closer without touching. “I’d say I’m surprised you’re not more injured, but I’ve seen you fight,” he said, looking up, and his eyes met yours, the ghost of a smile on his lips.

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?” You ask, dumbfounded.

“Something like that,” he chuckled to himself, lowering his head. When he looks back up, his gaze lingers on your neck. “I’m sorry I let that guy grab you. I didn’t think he had anything left in him. That was my mistake.” He reaches out like he’s going to brush your hair away from your shoulder and get a closer look, but hesitates before he can touch you, pulling his hand back to his lap.

He seemed almost shy. A far cry from the monster that tore a man’s throat out with his teeth right in front of your eyes. You couldn’t deny the urge to trust him was growing. His tousled brown hair and respectful demeanour brought you right back to when you served him in the café, his soft laugh when you thanked him for ordering an easy coffee—the kind of person you’d be happy spending time with, someone you wanted to get to know better. But that image in your mind was swiftly replaced by the figure from your nightmare. His silhouette looming over you before he chooses whether you live or die. Despite his mask, he was still covered in blood.

A rapid knock on the door breaks your train of thought. Turning to look over your shoulder, a man with long, wavy, dark hair carrying a duffle bag steps into the apartment. Noah stands, approaching the man and patting him on the shoulder in a half embrace. “This is Nick. You have both met before,” Noah introduces his friend, stepping behind him to close the door.

“I don’t think I could forget,” he laughed. “You really carved me up on the bridge. I was limping all the way back.” The bikaku ghoul.

You followed him with your eyes as he walked further into the room, rounding the couch to sit next to you in the place Noah was, resting the bag between his feet. “That looks nasty... Ukaku, yeah?” he remarks as he gets a look at the laceration. You nod while he inspects the area. “Deep too. Any other injuries?” He asks as he leans down to unzip the bag.

“No,” you say quietly as he rummages, pulling out a pristine white case and several packages of gauze pads, resting them on his knees.

“I can stitch this for you. Luckily, it’s a clean cut. It should heal well if you look after it,” he says, meeting your intense gaze with softness, offering a smile. You couldn’t understand how this was the same man that struck you in the middle and sent you skidding across the bridge.

“Why would you help me?” you ask, unable to contain the disbelief.

“Because you need it. Or, can you stitch this yourself?” He smirks with a joking tone. You laugh at the absurdity of the situation. Two ghouls that want to help you and not kill you. With a shake of your head, you hold your arm out for Nick to work on. “Okay,” he pats the objects on his lap. “I’ll wash my hands, sterilise the area, then get started. I have some pain relief medication that might make it easier.” You shake your head ‘no’, still not trusting the pair and definitely not trusting any medication they claim would help.

“Consider it,” Noah says from the kitchen, where he was crouched down rummaging through the cupboards. “You did get pretty beat up last night too.”

“Sorry about that, by the way,” Nick says, pushing his hair out of his face as he stands and heads for the sink. “What are you looking for?” He asks Noah, scraping his hair all the way back and securing it into a bun.

“I swear we had coffee in this place. Did Folio take it again?”

“It’s right there by the microwave,” Nick nods in the direction from the sink, and Noah takes the tin, grasping it firmly in hand with a wide smile on his face.

“What would I do without you?” He claps Nick on the shoulder as he passes him in the small space to retrieve a saucepan, filling it with water after Nick steps away from the sink to come back to you. Through the tear in the bottom of Noah’s shirt made by his kagune, you notice a hint of ink on his lower back too.

“That packet there, can you tear it open?” he asks, nodding again towards his bag, hands dripping water on his knees. The package was a sterile towel. You rip the plastic, careful not to touch the cloth with your bloodied and dirtied hands, and hold it out for Nick to take and dry his hands with. Once dry, he reaches into the bag and pulls out a pair of blue latex gloves, snapping them on securely. “Alright, I’ll clean the area a little first. It’s gonna sting,” he warns, the conversation ringing eerily similar to the one you had with your father when he crashed in through the front door two nights ago. He unscrews the cap on the bottle and soaks a gauze pad with the brown liquid. “Let us know if you change your mind about the meds,” he says before dabbing the pad lightly onto the wound.

He was right; the sting was bad. Gritting your teeth against the burn, you try not to move or flinch away from the pain. As a welcome distraction, the warm aroma of coffee fills the air. You look over to Noah in the kitchen, pouring the water boiled from the stove into three mugs. He brings them over carefully and sets them down on the empty floor, sitting cross-legged opposite the couch.

“So, what are your questions?” You ask him, anxious to get this over with.

His eyes move from where Nick is working on your wound to your face. He takes one of the mugs, leaning forward to place it by Nick’s feet, then takes the third and holds it out, the handle facing you. You hesitate for a moment, but decide against your better judgement. The fatigue was worsening, and you needed to try to stay as alert as possible.

“Why is the CCG moving in on this area?” He asks when he settles back down, taking his own cup and resting it in his lap.

You blink rapidly in confusion, “I didn’t know they were.”

“You’ve been assigned to this area, though?”

“No,” you clarify. “I don’t work for the CCG, and neither does my dad. Not anymore at least.” You take a sip of the black coffee, relishing in the way the liquid warms your aching insides. The flavourful bitterness is a welcome taste on your tongue.

“How do you have quinque weapons if you’re not Investigators?” A crease was prominent in his brow.

“My dad stole them. One is his, the other was my mother’s.”

The sting intensified in your arm as Nick cleaned the deepest part of the wound. You shifted uncomfortably in an attempt to distract yourself.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “Almost done with this part.”

“What was the medication you had?” You ask as you scrunch your face up in pain. Maybe it would be a good idea to accept pain relief. Maybe it would work to soothe the rest of your body too.

“It’s just standard over-the-counter stuff from the pharmacy, right?” Noah asks Nick, kneeling forward to rummage through the bag.

“Yeah. Front pocket,” he replies without looking up.

Fishing through the material, Noah retrieves a familiar branded package of painkillers. He holds it up and nods towards you, asking silently if you wanted to take it. You nod and place the mug of coffee momentarily between your knees as Noah pulls a blister strip from the box. He pops two from the packaging and hands them over into your open palm.

“Your hands got fucked up too,” he mentions while you throw the pills into your mouth. Chasing them down with a sip of coffee.

“That happened yesterday,” you say, holding out your palm in front of you to inspect the damage. The reopened small abrasions were visible under a layer of dirt and blood.

“I can clean those up for you too after this,” Nick says, putting a gauze pad aside to click open the white case. He takes out a sterile needle from its packaging and threads it with the suture wire with ease. Nothing like your shaky hands. “Okay. Ready?” He asks. You nod, taking another mouthful of coffee, really wishing it were laced with a shot of something stronger.

The pull of the needle through your skin wasn’t as bad as you expected it to be. A slight scratchy-burning sensation as he weaved the needle in and out of your flesh, looping the thread around itself and pulling firmly to secure the two sides of the wound closed.

“How did your dad steal three quinques from the CCG?” Noah continued his line of questioning. You had to be honest; it was a welcome distraction. Even if the subject matter wasn’t exactly pleasant.

“He worked there for a decade. When my mother died and they forced him into retirement, he took a bunch of files along with the quinques. I think everyone respected him too much to argue with a grieving man.”

Noah nodded, deep in thought. He sipped his coffee before continuing. “Why are you here?”

“My father is looking for someone,” you bite the inside of your cheek.

“Who?”

“A ghoul.”

“Who?” Noah persists. You sigh, closing your eyes. How much information was too much information? “Look, you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. We, my friends and I, keep track of all the ghouls in the 13th Ward and all the Doves. "When two doves move in, we want to know why, for the safety of everyone here.”

“Why?” Was your turn to ask. Was this guy some kind of mafia boss? You don’t miss the glance Nick takes from your arm towards Noah.

He takes another sip of coffee. “Innocents get hurt when the wrong people, or the wrong ghouls, are in charge.”

“And you’re the right people? Or, the right ghouls?” You question.

“I’d like to think we are.”

You nod thoughtfully, bringing your mug to your lips.

“Answer me this, at least,” he poses, “are we the ghouls your father is after?”

You shake your head; that face reappears in your mind. “No.”

The room falls silent, a surprisingly comfortable silence as Nick works diligently at your wound. He was almost halfway done now.

“So, what is this place anyway?” You ask, looking around the almost empty room.

“One of our safehouses. We have a lot spread out over the Ward,” Noah clarifies simply.

“One of? How many do you have?” Maybe this guy was a mafia boss after all...

He chuckles under his breath and fiddles with the mug in his hands. “A few. We let ghouls that have nowhere else to go live in them mostly. Or use them ourselves.”

“So, you’re housing the homeless when you’re not ripping people’s throats out with your teeth?” You question sarcastically.

“Did you really do that, dude?” Nick’s hands pause, and he looks up at Noah, amused disgust on his face.

“What was I supposed to do?” He gestures with one hand, eyebrows raised in defence, “just let that ghoul eat you? He wasn’t even supposed to be in this area, anyway.”

Nick shakes his head, a small piece of hair falling free from his bun by the side of his head, and continues stitching your arm. “Who was it?”

“The guy we caught like, four months ago, I think. Shame he didn’t take us up on our offer,” he sighs, sipping his coffee again.

“What offer?” You look between the two.

“We explained we’d be more than happy to get him the food he needs to survive, but in exchange, he couldn’t hunt around here anymore. He wasn’t a fan,” Noah explains.

“Yeah, flipped our table and smashed a window on the way out. Fuck that guy.”

“So housing and feeding the homeless, you’re real philanthropists,” you laugh, sipping from your mug. Until the realisation hits you exactly what kind of food these guys were talking about. This wasn’t a group of good samaritans cooking extra meals in their kitchens to hand out on the streets to those in need. They were feeding ghouls. They were ghouls. You had to remember where you were; remember not to get lulled into a false sense of security, no matter how easy and casual the conversation may be.

“So,” Noah breaks your train of thought, “if you don’t mind me asking, if it’s your father that’s looking for a ghoul here, why did you come too?”

You lower your eyes to your lap and pick at the rim of the ceramic mug. That’s a question you've been asking yourself a lot these past few days. “He’s my dad,” you say quietly with a shrug, regretting it when the cut in your arm stings. “I can’t just leave him alone. He’s all I have.”

Noah nods. “I understand that.”

“Last three, then this is done.” You look down at your arm, and in place of the gaping wound was a neat line of stitches, way neater than anything you’d ever done on your father and definitely neater than what you could’ve done on yourself.

“Thank you,” you say quietly. “I really appreciate this.”

“You’re welcome,” Nick smiles up at you as he ties off the final stitch. “Noah, can you get out some more gauze pads so I can fix her hands?"

He wordlessly places his mug down and kneels in front of the bag, rummaging through to find what Nick needs. “These ones?” He asks, holding up some packages.

“Yeah, and can you get- Can I see your hands for a sec?” He asks as he takes a pair of scissors from the white case and snips the suture. You turn your hands over and get a good look at the state of your palms. Nick takes them gently and angles them this way and that. "Yeah, it’s just scrapes, not too bad. We can just clean and bandage them. Can you get the roll of white gauze, the bigger brown roll, and the tape? Oh, and a large plaster.”

Noah rummages for the items, tearing open the packages and setting them in the white case within arms reach for Nick. "Thanks, dude,” he says, reaching down for his mug of coffee that must be lukewarm by now. Regardless, he takes three big gulps, then sets it back on the floor. First, he applies the plaster over the freshly stitched wound, then he rips open a gauze pad, soaks it with antiseptic, and meets your eyes. “Ready?”

“Go for it,” you reply. He’ll probably do a better job cleaning the scrapes than you did in the shower earlier. The sting of the antiseptic makes your eyes water, but you grit your teeth and bear it.

Noah hadn’t moved from where he shuffled closer. Watching attentively as the dirt and blood are cleaned away. You can’t help but look at his tattoos now that he was so close. A red and black, Japanese traditional-style sleeve on one arm, waves and something that appeared to be a fish, and black and grey work on the other. From this angle, you could see a bird with arrows through it and leaves, all part of another larger sleeve that you couldn’t see because of his shirt. Then there were the ones you saw when you first met him—the intricate patterns on his hands and the snake on his neck. You realise the piece on his throat is a scene from Genesis. A hand reaching for the apple with the serpent coiled around. They were all beautiful, you thought, and they suited him well.

“How many of you are there?” You ask almost absentmindedly.

His eyes locked onto yours for a moment, his gaze making your heart race, and you desperately wished it would stop. He was a ghoul; he could probably hear it. “Four of us, mainly. There are others, but most of the work is us four.”

You nod at his answer—the four of them on the bridge. It made sense. You wondered if the others were just as friendly as these two. Or, if this was all still an act.

“You were limping before. Is your leg injured?” Noah asked, something that appeared to be genuine concern etched onto his features.

“Oh,” you say, looking down at the hip in question. “That happened last night too. It’s just bruised. It’s fine.” His concern was almost endearing, despite his group being responsible for the injuries. “Wait,” you frown, looking up at him. “When did you see me limping?”

“Followed you,” he says plainly, throwing back the last of his coffee. You stare at him with wide eyes, Nick continuing to clean up your hands. Apparently you’re the only one in the room that finds being followed weird. “What?” He says, equally shocked. “I thought you were a CCG Investigator on a mission to kill us all! Can you blame me?”

You shake your head in disbelief. You can’t blame him, really. If your dad could get out of bed, he’d probably be following some random ghouls around the Ward right now.

Nick tossed the gauze pad off to the side and wiped off his hands on the towel, then took a fresh pad and pressed it against your palm, tore off pieces of tape, and pressed them on securely to hold it tight to the wounded area. He takes the roll of white gauze and wraps it securely around the gauze pad, up your wrist and down towards your fingers, then does the same with the thicker brown dressing, wrapping it tight to protect the whole thing from the outside and keep it sterile. You flex your fingers when he’s done, finding your range of movement fine.

“Ready for the next one?” He asks. You simply nod and twist towards him in your seat to hold your other palm out.

“How is your father? If you don’t mind me asking,” Noah says softly.

“He’s alive,” you study his face, and he seems to genuinely care. “He’s pretty beat up, but I think he’ll be fine. If he gives himself time to heal, which I’m not sure he will.”

“He’s a hell of a fighter,” Nick comments.

“He’s retired. He should be on a beach somewhere drinking too much liquor.”

Noah chuckles under his breath and collects his cup, then looks at yours. “Do you want another?”

“No, I’m good, thank you,” you hold out the mug for him to take. He stands from the floor with ease and heads off into the kitchen to rinse them out in the sink. You can’t stop staring. A ghoul doing the washing up.

“We really are just trying to protect what we have here, you know,” Nick says as he wraps your hand. “We don’t usually go around picking fights.”

You turn your face to look at him. A ghoul tending to the wounds of a human. “Unlike my father,” you sigh. A moment of silence fills the room, filled only by the sound of running water and the occasional clinking of ceramic. “I’m sorry that he’s causing so much trouble. I keep trying to tell him, but he doesn’t listen. It’s like I can’t get through to him.”

“He’ll listen,” Nick reassures, taping down the last of the bandage. “You’re his daughter.”

You pull your hand back to your lap when he’s finished as he snaps off the latex gloves, flexing both hands and finding they immediately feel better.

Noah comes back into the front room, wiping his hands on his legs to dry them. “Are you sure you don’t have any other injuries? Anything else we can do to help?”

“No. No, I'm sure. I need to go back anyway. Check on my dad.”

“Of course. I’ll walk you there,” Noah says.

You stand on still shaky legs from the couch. “No, you don’t need to do that-”

“It’s late,” he interjects. “I know you might not believe it, but there are worse things out there than us.”

“Don’t forget this,” Nick says, standing to cross the room, opening the door, and picking up a plastic bag from the other side.

“Is that- my groceries?” You ask. Nick just smiles and hands the bag to Noah, who holds it out to you with an outstretched arm. Your hand twitches by your sides, but the movement hesitates; ever present in the back of your mind is the true nature of these men.

"Look, I know I look scary, but I wouldn't hurt a fly. You don't have to worry," Noah reassures.

Nick leans over with a whisper, "you literally killed a man like, an hour ago."

"I didn't say anything about hurting men. I said I wouldn't hurt a fly... That much is true."

“You almost killed me on the bridge,” you counter.

“But I didn’t,” he says with a cheeky smile. You couldn’t wrap your head around how this casual conversation was happening right now.

Nick looks between you and Noah and claps his hands. “Well, I’m gonna go! It was nice meeting you properly. You know, not trying to kill each other.” He collects the trash in a plastic bag, ties it off, and throws it into the duffle, along with the white case full of first aid supplies. Slinging it over his shoulder, he pats Noah on the shoulder and says, “See you later, dude.”

“Yeah, see you.”

“Thank you again,” you say quickly. “And it was nice to properly meet you too.”

He smiles, and with a wave, he was gone through the front door. Noah was right; it wasn’t a trap. They really did want to help. You take your jacket from the couch and cautiously slip it on, careful not to twist your arm in a way that would pull the fresh stitches.

“I’ll carry this for you,” Noah says, holding up the bag. “So you don’t mess up your hands.”

“Yeah, okay,” you say, trying to hide the heat you could feel creeping up on your cheeks.

The air was significantly colder when you stepped outside. Wrapping your arms tight around you, you couldn’t help but glance around at your surroundings. The streets were just as empty as earlier, and you could feel the anxiety creeping up on you again at the idea of being completely alone with a ghoul.

“You ready?” Noah asks, standing a couple of paces ahead of you. You nod silently and catch up to him. You fall into step beside him as you walk; the only sound was the wind whistling through the streets and the grocery bag rustling by Noah’s side.

Your mind wouldn’t stop racing; one question that you didn’t ask him was bouncing around in your brain until you just had to speak. “You let us live. On the bridge.”

“I did.”

“Why?” You ask.

“We don’t kill innocent people.”

“But you kill humans.”

“Out of necessity. And only people that deserve it. There’s no shortage of bad types here.”

“Who are you to decide that?” Your words echo those of the ghoul’s from earlier in the night.

“So the man who was following you home with a knife in his pocket should’ve lived?”

“The- What?”

Noah stops in his tracks and takes a deep breath. “I recognised you at the bookstore cafe. I saw you move in and recognised your father’s scent on you from when he trespassed into our territory. So, I waited for you to leave after your shift. I intended on following you home that night to gather information on your father,” he speaks clearly and plainly. “Like I said before, I keep track of all the Doves in the Ward, and I wanted to know his intentions. Turns out someone else had the same idea. You didn’t even see him behind you, but he pulled a knife out of his pocket and picked up his pace when you reached the outskirts of town. And I stopped him.”

The crash down the alley. You thought it was cats. “You killed him.”

“I did.”

“You saved me.”

“I did.”

“Why would you save me?” The wind whipped around you both, causing you to shiver and wrap your arms around yourself tighter. You realised that Noah never put his own coat back on but showed no signs of being bothered by the cold. “If you recognised me then, you knew I had connections to a CCG Investigator, why would you save me?”

He’s quiet for a moment, deep in thought, before answering, “I don’t know,” then continuing to walk.

You’re both quiet for a while. The silence is comfortable despite the heavy subject matter. “Thank you,” you say quietly. He looks down at you expectantly. “Thank you for saving me. And thank you for letting us live on the bridge.”

Noah nods in understanding.

He’s helped you so far, hasn’t judged you or belittled you. Maybe you really could trust him. “My father, he’s… tracking the ghoul that killed my mother. He thinks he’s here, in the 13th.” You’re silent for a moment as you continue to walk. “I don’t know if he’s right.” You run a hand over your face. “I don’t know if it even matters to him. He’s hellbent on killing every ghoul he can get his weapon on.”

“What do you want?” Noah asks.

“I want my dad back,” you sigh.

You continue to walk. Passing quickly by the alleyway that you almost died in mere hours ago, the only evidence of the fight was the pool of blood left in the street and the mangled dumpster in the mouth of the alley.

“What does he have so far? On the ghoul that killed your mother,” Noah breaks the silence.

“A physical description. He was there, he watched it happen. He has sketches all over his fucking wall,” you spit with a bitter laugh.

“Can you get one for me?” He asks. You cock your head to the side, wondering why he would want an image of the ghoul your father was tracking. “I keep track of every ghoul in the Ward, remember? If he’s local, I’ll know him.”

“What, do you- do you want to help?”

“Maybe if we can find the right guy, let your father get his revenge, he’ll come to his senses again?”

“I don’t know,” you say with a weary sigh. “I don’t know if it’ll be enough for him.” The apartment building was in view, and from the street, you could see no lights were on on your floor. “I’ll get you a sketch. Wait here,” you say as you approach the front door.

Noah nods, hands over the plastic grocery bag, and waits several paces away from the front door.

When you shove the door open and get inside, the first thing you see in the darkness were the covers you’d given your father from your bed to keep him warm enough in the night, left in a heap on the end of the couch. Immediately you’re irritated. He couldn’t even put them back in your room, the room next door to his.

You squeeze past the couch, leave the groceries on the couch, and crack open his bedroom door, finding him, still breathing, asleep on his side with his back to the door. An empty tin of soup sat on his bedside table. Most likely eaten unheated and straight out of the tin. You close your eyes and sigh deeply, shaking your head and closing the door on the way out.

Stopping off in his office, you stare at his investigation board. Articles and scrawled notes connected with red string pulled straight from the mind of a madman. You find a sketch of that face tacked off to the side and hope he won’t notice its absence. Squeezing past the couch on the way out and pulling the door closed again on its wonky hinges.

Noah is exactly where you left him, though he was standing with his back to the apartment entrance, looking out into the dimly lit empty streets.

“You’ve had dealings with him before, I think. I read a news report on my dad’s desk. Something about him trespassing into your area,” you take one last look at the grotesque face before handing the sketch over to Noah. “This is what he looks like.”

His brown eyes scan the paper before speaking, his tone laced with disdain. “Yeah. We know this guy.”

“Is he here then?”

“Yeah,” Noah nods. “We’ve had some leads on where he’s operating out of. We were going there tomorrow actually, to scope the place out,” he scans the page one more time before looking back at you. “Come with us.”

“Wait, You- Why would you want me there?”

“If you see him for yourself, you’ll know we aren’t lying,” he says sincerely. You hesitate, mulling over the idea of spending more time with this man- this ghoul. “We’ll just be watching from a distance. Besides, the sooner we track him down and deal with him, the sooner you can take your dad back home, right?”

“Yeah, I suppose,” you concede.

“You don’t have to come, but think about it. I’ll come by tomorrow around 10pm, and we can talk more then.”

“Okay,” you nod. Maybe you could get these ghouls to kill Malice; maybe then your father would decide to go back to the 2nd Ward.

Noah nods and turns, hands in his pockets, calling, “See you tomorrow,” over his shoulder.

“Noah!” You call after him as he walks away. “Do you really think you can kill this guy?”

“It doesn’t matter if your father kills him or I do. The ghoul that killed your mother is going to die.”

PREV　/　NEXT [coming soon..]

Ending Notes: I realised my taglist link was wrong so you might wanna check you've liked the correct post (linked at the top) if you want to be updated! 🖤 A glossary has also been added explaining terms if you need it!

➤ 𝗣𝗢𝗣𝗨𝗟𝗔𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡 (34) :

⌞1𝗌𝗍 𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖣 - 𝖢𝖧𝖨𝖸𝖮𝖣𝖠⌝ ‣ @somebodyels3 ‣ @fadingangelwisp ‣ @english-fucker ‣ @missduffsblog ‣ @amelia-acero

⌞2𝗇𝖽 𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖣 - 𝖢𝖧𝖴𝖮⌝ ‣ @fadingintothegrey ‣ @babygirlchuuya ‣ @bluebird19 ‣ @collisionofyourkissmakesitsohard ‣ @lil-garbitch

⌞3𝗋𝖽 𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖣 - 𝖬𝖨𝖭𝖠𝖳𝖮⌝ ‣ @thisbicc ‣ @clingylittlebun-blog ‣ @queen-foraday ‣ @astridwesson ‣ @dethroneackerman

⌞4𝗍𝗁 𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖣 - 𝖲𝖧𝖨𝖭𝖩𝖴𝖪𝖴⌝ ‣ @blairboo ‣ @themorticians-world ‣ @comforting-madness ‣ @savaneafricaine ‣ @tosoundlessdarkistare

⌞5𝗍𝗁 𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖣 - 𝖡𝖴𝖭𝖪𝖸𝖮⌝ ‣ @aubrey-melinoe ‣ @badomensls ‣ @theaudraeymarie ‣ @psychomaniacmind ‣ @stardust-and-starlight

⌞6𝗍𝗁 𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖣 - 𝖳𝖠𝖨𝖳𝖮⌝ ‣ @looney-goose ‣ @sadbitchenergy ‣ @friedchildblaze ‣ @touyas-princess ‣ @strltsaiuki

⌞7𝗍𝗁 𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖣 - 𝖲𝖴𝖬𝖨𝖣𝖠⌝ ‣ @lovesick-evangelist ‣ @sanekiii ‣ @dravenskye ‣ @minah2020 ‣ @rumoured-whispers

⌞7𝗍𝗁 𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖣 - 𝖪𝖮𝖳𝖮⌝ ‣ @1crushed1 ‣ @thewrstinme ‣ @theskyislonely

#noah sebastian x reader #noah sebastian fanfic #noah sebastian fanfiction #C:/PROJECTS/MYWORK/SERIES/NTG

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gremlin-girly · 7 months ago

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Kinktober Day 25

Drunk Sex

Pairing: Curtis Everett x f!reader

Tags/Warnings: SMUT, MDNI, drunk sex, alcohol consumption, p-in-v, creampie, unprotected sex, rough-ish sex, pussy eating/cunnilingus/face sitting mention, oral (f recieving), quickie (sorta)

Not beta'd and I don't give permission for my work to be reposted, translated, copied or put through an AI Machine

Summary: You meet a guy at a bar and take him home.

Word Count: 461

A/N: originally, this was a whole very long ass fic (in fact it was a Jake Jensen fic). However. I was converted. So Jake's fic will be a stand alone instead (at some point - my drafts are in the 500s now haha). This is my first time writing Curtis too so apologies in advance - I haven't quite got the handle of him yet.

Banners by: @/cafekitsune

Prev | Next | Kinktober 2024 | Navigation

You always make impeccable bad decisions.

Dating someone who is a walking red flag. Investing in the new crypto currency. Letting your "friend" convince you to join the business she was working on (spoilers: it was an MLM scheme).

Taking the big, broody, possibly-could-kill-you guy from the bar back to your apartment.

Yeah. That would be a pretty terrible idea.

Except, as you're sprawled on your queen-size bed gripping the sheets like a lifeline while said guy is swallowing your cunt like he hasn't eaten in days, you can't help but think that maybe it was a good idea after all.

You've already cum twice over his face and your brain swims, a cocktail of hormones and alcohol making you drunk for him, a stranger. You reach for his short hair, trying to pull him upwards, trying to speak. But your brain is slow and your words are slurred but he waits patiently for you to finish.

"You," you whimper, still trying to claw at him. "Need you, fuck."

"Need me, huh?" He rumbles, pushing himself up and tearing away his t-shirt. Your eyes rake his form, slipping the tight straps of your dress down your arms to free your tits finally. Your stranger licks his lips and grins at the sight of your almost-sleepy lustful gaze trailing to the lower half of his body expectantly.

"Damn right you do," He growls unbuckling his belt and shucking down his dirty oil covered jeans. You're sure he told you what he did for a living but you can't quite remember at this moment as you watch him pull his cock out of his boxers. "Your pussy's fucking dripping for me."

Your body burns with heat from his words and the alcohol; an excellent dose of dopamine that makes your clit throb and your head roll back when he taps the sticky head of his cock against your clit.

You remember approaching him at the bar; vague flirtatious conversation that led to making out in the cab to your apartment, that led to him now burying himself deep into your cunt with reckless abandon drawing moan after choked moan from you until he's spent his load inside you with eye-fluttering sigh.

When he removes himself from you he gives you a small smile and you smile back, both of your lust-drunk fogs lifting slightly.

"I'm Curtis," he pants out, words ever so slightly slurred, getting to his feet and removing his clothes fully. You take a moment to appreciate the view before giving him your name and getting to your feet and slipping out of your creased dress. Curtis' arms wrap around you, lips latching onto the skin of your neck.

"Okay Y/N. Where's your shower? I'm not done with you just yet."

#gremlin girly #gremlin girly writes #kinktober #kinktober 2024 #kinktober2024 #curtis everett #curtis everett x reader #curtis everett x you #curtis everett fanfiction #curtis everett smut #curtis everett x female reader #curtis everett snow piercer #kinktober day 25 #chris evans characters #chris evans character

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winwintea · 11 months ago

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Belladonna! fourteen ↬ the price of greed

You met Renjun outside of the theatre, after waiting for about 15 minutes. His outfit looked cute. He greeted you with a smile, and as his beanie almost fell off of his face and you couldn’t help but giggle as he tried to fix it turning his head to the side. You took a few sips of the coffee you had, and ate some of the breakfast you had ordered already. With him nearby, you had managed to relax a little and just ignore the situation at hand for a while...

"Sorry I took a while. I tried to hurry back as quickly as I could." Renjun rubbed the back of his neck.

“You’re perfectly fine. Coffee?” You grabbed a bag sitting at your feet, bringing it up to present it to Renjun.

"Yes please, you don’t have to tell me otherwise.” He grabbed the bag out of your hands and quickly took a sip of the warm coffee inside. His eyes lit up, “Wait this shit is good?”

“Made it myself, from yours truly!” You winked at him, basking in the praise Renjun had given you. “I always make my own. Buying it is too expensive these days.”

“I’m certainly impressed.” You couldn’t help but feel your heart soar from the praise. He took a few more sips of the coffee, before turning to the door, “You ready?”

"Ugh. The sooner this is over, the better. I still think there’s a potential murderer out here," You sigh.

As you two both entered the theatre once again, you couldn’t help but nervously shake at the idea of confronting your friend like this. How would he react? Would he scream? Yell at you?

Your thoughts were interrupted by Renjun’s hands upon your shoulder, giving you a gentle smile. “It’ll be okay.”

“Y/N! Renjun!” Jay greeted the two of you politely, and your heart twinged a bit. Oh god you felt so guilty about doing this.

“Jay… Hi…”

“What’s up? Why are you two here so early?”

You absolutely want to die right then and there. Like could someone just kill you right now? This was by far harder than any breakup you’d ever been through. You had known Jay for so much of your life. To choose between right and wrong? and just friend code in general?

But with Renjun next to you to comfort you, you felt like you could do anything. “Yeah, actually there’s something I have to tell you Jay…”

"I will assume that means-" Jay said, before... breaking into a fit of coughs.

"Jay?" you asked, frowning. "Are you alright?" Jay continued coughing.

"J-Jay...?!" Renjun moved to his side, but he just continued coughing, his hands wrapping themselves around his throat.

One of Jay’s hands let go of his throat and grasped for something in front of him...

...then he slumped down in front of us, the glass of his glasses cracking.

prev ↤ belladonna! ↦ next

SUMMARY ↬ you've been tasked with visting and inspecting the grand rose theatre, a theatre that's been plagued with mysteries over the years. all seems well, until a string of murders follows your visit. as you further investigate, you find yourself falling for huang renjun, the beautiful male lead, and your mystery murderer who leaves you love notes and clues about who they could potentially be. will you be smart enough to be a step ahead of the killer? or will you find yourself caught within their trap?

TAG LIST ↬ @aquaphoenixz @lyvhie @nerdsungie @nanaxwi @itsashley127 @layuhsblog @syatchy @p-d1ddy @galacticnct @neocrashed @multifandomania @lotties-readings @odxrilove @clockwork--fandoms @hyuckies18 @kaciebello @marvelahsobx @injunnie-lemon @busy-daydreaming02 @h-aechanie

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3-2-whump · 1 year ago

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Escape Attempt One

One of How Many?

Set five days after The Auction Floor

Reference floor plan here

TW/CW: minor whump, threats of violence, though if there's anything else that should've been tagged, don't hesitate to tell me!

Thud

Thomas groaned as he rolled over to the nightstand by his bed to view the alarm clock. It was 6:30 AM on a Saturday. He didn’t even get all that drunk the night before. So, where was that incessant pounding coming from?

Crash!

The sound of breaking glass launched the man from his bed as he ran to the closed door of Khaled’s bedroom. “Boy? You alright in there?” he called. No response. He tried the door handle, but it was locked. “Open the door!” Still no response.

This better not be what I think it is, he thought. Muttering a curse under his breath, Thomas gathered his strength, charged with his gathered momentum, and broke the door down.

The first thing he noticed after stepping into the threshold over Khaled’s door was the gaping hole in the boy’s broken window. Birdsong and faint noises of traffic filtered up from the street below as a gentle breeze blew through the room. He stepped past the broken glass and looked out the smashed window. A makeshift rope made of torn bedsheets knotted together hung conspicuously over the rooftop railing. "Oh hell no!" He ran out of the bedroom to the living room, threw open the sliding door to the rooftop, ran over to the bedsheet rope, and leaned over the railing to meet Khaled’s big doe eyes looking up at him in terror.

Honestly, if it wasn’t his slave pet companion whatever he was this was happening to, then the situation might’ve been funny. He schooled his face into a neutral expression and asked, “What do you think you’re doing?” Thankfully, the boy didn’t make it too far down. His bare feet rested precariously on the windowsill one story down, and he held the sheet in a white-knuckle grip. He let out a squeak as he broke eye contact and began to shimmy faster down the rope. “Hey, no! Get back here!” Thomas scolded.

Khaled shook his head, still climbing. Thomas got an idea. “Well, if you insist…” He grabbed a shard of broken glass and started cutting through one of the bedsheets. The boy yelped as he felt the tension slacken in the rope. He stopped his progress entirely, hugging the rope for dear life as he looked up to his master and pleaded in a language Thomas didn’t understand. “You’ve got a choice, boy; you either climb your ass back up here, or I will collect you from the pavement!” He made a show of sawing away at the bedsheet until it was almost cut in half. Though Khaled himself didn’t weigh much, the pull of gravity on the torn sheet served only to rip it further. “Either way, you’re coming back in here, you just decide whether you break a few bones along the way!”

Khaled lowered his eyes and faintly nodded as he slowly climbed back up. “Good choice,” Thomas muttered as he pulled him up and back onto the rooftop. He wasn’t nearly as careful about the broken glass scratching the boy as he helped him. “Are you okay?” The boy nodded. Thomas slapped him. Khaled staggered back from the impact, catching himself before he could fall. “Go wait in the living room until I decide what to do with you. Don’t move, don’t speak, just wait for me,” he ordered sternly. “Go. Now.”

The boy shuddered as he scurried back inside. Meanwhile, Thomas sighed as he gathered up the bedsheet rope and kicked aside the glass shards. What do I do with this boy? He hardly even wanted this kid in the first place; it was all Luca and Jaime’s fault for goading him to place a bid on the poor wretch! Yet, a tiny part of him –a tiny, sympathetic, haunted part of him –remembered why he caved. This was penitence, absolution, a way to show he could do more than just hurt and kill and destroy people like him.

If only my brat would make it a little easier on me, he thought to himself.

Le Tag List: @kabie-whump @rainydaywhump

#whump #whump writing #whumpee #whumper #escape attempt #failed escape attempt #tw minor whump #even though nothing bad happens to him I'm tagging this anyway for age #no beta we die like my protestant upbringing

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clangenrising · 2 years ago

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Month 5 - Greenleaf

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“Get ready…” Floodkit ordered, dropping into a crouch. “Get ready…” Beside him, Sparrowkit bounced excitedly and Barleykit groaned in anxiety.

“Almost readyyyy…” he said, the energy in his voice rising higher. “Okay now!” He hurtled out of the cool shade of the nursery and tore across the trampled grass towards his enemy. He gave a tiny battle cry and sprang onto Russetfrond’s fluffy ginger tail. Sparrowkit slammed into him a second afterwards, also screaming at the top of his lungs. Russetfrond let out a disgruntled cry and stood, pulling his tail up and away from the playful kittens. Floodkit laughed, rolling around on his back, and swatted at it as the tail flicked out of his reach.

“Come back here!” he squeaked.

“Yeah, you’re on our terr’tory!” cried Sparrowkit, leaping to bite at Russetfrond’s heel.

“Your territory?” the warrior rumbled, feigning outrage. “We’ll see about that.” He lifted a paw and pushed Floodkit around while shaking Sparrowkit from his back foot. The kittens squealed in delight, wriggling and kicking at him.

Nearby, Pantherhaze, who had been talking with Russetfrond earlier, looked back at the nursery and called, “Did you want to play too, Barleykit?” She eeped and dropped to the ground but her big ears gave her away, visible above the grass. Floodkit roared and jumped at Russetfrond again, biting at him with needle sharp teeth.

“We’re RisingClan warriors!” he shouted. “You have to leave, you mean old fox!”

Russetfrond shook him off with a hiss of pain. “Hey, gentler, kitten. Soft bites, remember.”

“But how am I supposed to kill you if I use soft bites!” Floodkit complained, leaping back at him again. Russetfrond easily pinned him down with a heavy paw.

“You’re not actually trying to kill me,” he frowned. “If you can’t use soft bites, you don’t get to play.” Floodkit struggled and grunted with effort as he tried to escape.

Looking at his brother, he cried out, “Sparrowkit, help me!”

“You have to use soft bites,” Sparrowkit declared, sitting back on his haunches. Floodkit grunted and thrashed a little longer before giving up.

“Fiiiiiine,” he groaned loudly. The firm weight of Russetfrond’s paw lifted. Tumbling onto his paws again, Floodkit shook out his fur and pouted. “When do I get to learn real fighting?”

He looked up at Russetfrond and Pantherhaze in despair. Above him sat two powerful warriors and he didn’t understand why he wasn’t allowed to be like them. Ospreymask had told him that morning that she had to go on a border patrol and had refused to let him tag along even though he insisted his legs were big enough.

“When you’re six moons old,” Russetfrond said, settling back down. “You’ll be apprenticed before the year is out, don’t worry.”

“But that’s forever away!” he complained.

“It’ll feel like no time at all when you get there,” Pantherhaze purred.

Floodkit huffed. “I guess.”

“Hey, I bet you can’t get to Mama before I can!” Sparrowkit said, suddenly jumping to his feet.

“No way! I’m the fastest!” Floodkit shouted, tearing off towards the healer’s den where Oddstripe was studying with Sagetooth. Pantherhaze watched them go with a smile.

“Oh, dear,” he chuckled, “his mentor is going to have their paws full.”

Russetfrond sighed and laid his head on his paws. “No kidding.”

#clangen #clan gen #clan gen oc #clangen oc #warriors #warrior cats #warriors oc #warrior cats oc #Russetfrond #Pantherhaze #Greenleaf #clangenrising #Barleybee #Sparrowsway #Floodstrike

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the-bad-batch-baroness · 10 months ago

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Where's Mommy?

Wolffe x Lilith Sestri (OFC)

Part 18

Summary: Wolffe's wife suddenly dies, leaving him a single father in the middle of a war.

Pairing: Wolffe x Lilith Sestri (OFC)

Characters: Wolffe

Tags & Warnings: heavy angst, mention of death, off-screen death, spousal death, grief, hurt/comfort, family fluff, funeral

Word Count: 1.5k

Author's Note: Gonna be honest with y'all, I wrote this chapter this morning before lunch, because the last two weeks have been hectic at work and I haven't had any time. There was an important executive meeting Wednesday and everyone of importance was there, and then there was me 😅 So, yeah, sorry if this isn't up to my usual standards. I'll probably edit it at some point. As always, please enjoy 💚

Beta: @/beating-a-dead-plot

Part 1 || Prev | Next

Series Masterlist

Wolffe strolled down the streets of Coruscant and followed the coordinates Fox gave him for the nanny service. He was hesitant about hiring a stranger to watch his daughter, but he was more hesitant about leaving her in the sole care of the Jedi in the Temple. Wolffe trusted Plo with his life and his men, but Plo wasn't going to be the one watching Cara, and that was the unsettling part. On the other hand, Fox did mention that he vetted the nanny service, so it seemed safe enough. But it still rolled around in the back of his head like a marble on glass.

Wolffe tilted his head back towards the sky and groaned. He enjoyed life better when he didn't have to make these types of decisions. He was bred to think more outside the box than the average clone, but that was when it came to battle strategies, not babysitting. He knew about war and how to fight one, so he knew how to make those proper decisions, even in a split second on the battlefield under heavy fire, he could make clear and concise choices. However, parenting didn't come with a manual, simulations, target practice, or anything else useful.

Wolffe's comm beeped when he reached the coordinates. He must have been deep in his thoughts to have kept walking and ended up at the location he was headed to without realizing it. Auto-pilot is what everyone called it, but Wolffe called it a death trap. Distractions like that could get him and his entire battalion killed and then Cara would have no one–she'd be a real orphan. The thought made Wolffe shiver. He was going on a simple rescue mission and he'd be right back when it was done. There was no need for him to think those thoughts.

Wolffe looked up at the bright pink and blue neon sign with lines that swirled into odd shapes reminiscent of Galactic Basic letters. He raised an eyebrow at the strange sign and tilted his head to the side to try and read it. Why couldn't people just make signs with normal letters? He squinted in a final effort to read the words, but he shook his head and walked through the door without knowing what it said. If he was at the wrong establishment, he'd turn around, but something about the decor in the lobby told him he was in the right place.

It was a cross between, what Wolffe would consider, a child's play area and a sterile medcenter examination room. It looked and smelled clean, like an exam room, but their decorations were vibrant and colorful, and there were children's toys everywhere. It looked like a controlled clutter and it made Wolffe feel uncomfortable–anxious. He grew up in a sterilized environment with soft white lights, where the only color he ever saw was the dull blue or red of the cadet uniforms. The amount of color in this room made him dizzy.

"Can I help you?" the woman behind the counter asked.

Wolffe snapped out of his daze and approached the counter. The receptionist seemed nice enough–middle-aged, with graying hair, and glasses that reflected the light from the screen she sat behind. "I need a…" he paused. The words felt foreign in his mouth and almost disgusting to say, and he didn't know why. "...a nanny."

The woman grabbed one of the data-pads out of the docking port and handed it to Wolffe. "Start with completing this form."

Wolffe took the data-pad and stared at the woman, waiting for more direction. "Where…"

"You can sit in one of the chairs over there," she said. She stood up and pointed to a row of chairs that lined the far wall.

Wolffe nodded and sat in one of the chairs. It was made of plastic and squeaked under his weight. Even the chairs made Wolffe uncomfortable. Everything about this place made him feel itchy and prickly under his skin. He rapidly tapped his foot on the floor and periodically reminded himself to stop. The clones didn't have nervous tics. Well, at least, clone commanders didn't have nervous tics, and he wasn't sure when he possibly picked one up, but he could guess it had something to do with Cara. He wouldn't even be in this room if it wasn't for her.

Wolffe took a deep breath and started filling out the form. It started with simple information. How many kids–easy, one. Name–also easy, Cara. Date of birth–oh, no. He knew the day Cara was born, didn't he? Wolffe tapped his foot harder. What kind of father was he if he couldn't remember his only child's birthday? Maker, he wished his wife could help him. Then a light bulb turned on. The recording of Cara's birthday had a time stamp. Luckily, he had a good memory, and he input the date and month, and with a little math, he added the year.

Wolffe continued to work on the form. Much of it was simple, but there were more difficult parts, mostly to do with him. It asked for his last name–he didn't have one. It asked for his identification number–he didn't have one. It asked for his occupation–what was he supposed to put? War? Clone? Commander? He decided to leave it blank and move on. It was a dumb question anyway. This was about Cara, not him. Everything else about Cara and his wife was easy to input. It did ask for allergy and pediatrician information, but he didn't have any of that.

Once he completed the form to his best abilities, he brought the data-pad back to the woman at the counter. She took it and started importing the data into their system while Wolffe stood and waited for her to finish.

The woman frowned. "This form is incomplete."

Maker, he just wanted to get out of here. "I put in what I could."

"Your last name?" she asked. She stared at him like he was stupid or something.

"I don't have one," he said. "I'm a clone."

"Hm," she huffed with surprise. "I didn't know clones could have children."

Wolffe huffed. "We're not exactly sterile."

The woman ignored the comment. "I'll just put 'clone' as your last name. It won't let me submit the form without it."

Wolffe sighed. "Whatever works."

"And your daughter is…" she began. "Cara Dalott?" She paused, looking confused. "Wait, as in the Dalott's? The aristocratic Dalott family on the upper level? That Dalott?"

Wolffe gritted his teeth. "Yes, that Dalott."

"I didn't know the Dalott's had a granddaughter," she said while scanning through the rest of the information.

Now, he was getting annoyed. "It wasn't advertised."

"Such a shame about their daughter, Maria, though," she said, not looking up from her screen. "She had so much potential. What a waste."

"Please," Wolffe said. "Don't talk to me about my dead wife."

The woman peered up at him from behind her glasses, then went back to looking at her screen. "There's still some mis–"

Wolffe flattened his palms against the counter and took a deep breath. "Listen, all I need is for someone to live in the Jedi Temple and take care of my daughter while I'm halfway across the galaxy fighting a war! Can you help me or not?"

The woman sighed and placed the data-pad down. "Mr. Wolffe, do you need a live-in, full-time, or part-time nanny?"

"Live-in," he said.

"Species preference?"

"Human."

"Gender preference?"

"Female."

"Age preference?"

"Don't care."

"And when do you need the nanny?"

"Tomorrow, before sunset."

The woman raised an eyebrow. "You just want everything, don't you?"

"Do you have someone or not?" he asked.

The woman pulled out her comm. "I might have one that fits your needs. I'll send her a message and see if she's available to start tomorrow, but no guarantees."

"Thank you," he said. "How much?"

"How long do you need her for?" she asked.

Wolffe shrugged. He could try to guess, but it wouldn't be accurate. "Maybe two or three months?"

"Rates for live-in nannies are 2,500 credits a month," she said. "You want to pay for two or three?"

Wolffe's jaw dropped. Where was he going to get that many credits before tomorrow? This was way more expensive than he thought it was going to be. He hadn't counted, but he probably only had about 500 credits to his name. He could ask around the battalion, but credits were sparse among the clones and to ask his men to fund a nanny for his daughter sounded dumb. He'd have to find another way–some way. Once deployed, he could scavenge up more credits for the next time he needed the nanny. He'd never drink again, but it was a small price.

"Two months, and if I'm gone longer, I'll have it transferred," Wolffe said.

"Perfect," she said, then gave the data-pad back to Wolffe with a stylus. "Sign at the bottom."

Wolffe signed the agreement and gave the data-pad and stylus back to the woman.

The woman's comm dinged and she read the message. "Good news, Mr. Wolffe. I have your nanny. She'll be here tomorrow morning. Your payment is due then."

"Thank you," Wolffe said, and he turned to leave. Now he only had one thing to focus on, where he was going to get 5,000 credits before the morning.

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chronically-ghosted · 2 years ago

Text

Second Base.

rating: 18+

pairing: max phillips x f!reader

word count: 3712

summary: you try out second base; hand stuff only, but it changes things between you two, as much as you don't want it to.

warnings/tags: cute little outfits designed to drive max nuts, hand jobs (m and f receiving), more blood, fangs, one emotionally unavailable vampire

a/n: this contains one of my favorite lines i've ever written!

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Second base.

Because you aren’t actual sadists or masochists, after the first bite, your sex life with Max went back to normal. Well, as normal as sex with an immortal creature of the night ever was in the first place. Okay – as normal as sex with an immortal creature of the night who is Max Phillips ever was in the first place. Which is to say, often, hard, and loud. It had been weeks since you’d seen that worried look of consternation, that sweet vulnerability he expressed, as if feeding on you might be the thing that kills you and not being railed against your couch for the better part of an entire day. Sometimes you wished he had much respect for your ability to walk upright as he did your jugular vein.

On some level, you were aware that his recent overexuberance was in part due to that vulnerability. As if you might lift the curtain and find that the man behind it all might leave you wanting. Truly a frat boy at heart, Max struggled to express anything that couldn’t be summed up with the three “ings” – licking, sucking, and fucking, obviously – but now, he had been exposed as someone capable of those deeper feelings, as if he had been the one to split open a vein for you. And despite the heavenly glow you indulged in after the first bite, you really weren’t quite sure how you felt about it all. You hadn’t started dating Max with any illusions about who exactly he is. In fact, you might have started fucking him in the first place because it seemed wildly out of character that he or you would get attached at all – to anyone or anything. The dating thing just sort of happened, when you both came to the same conclusion at roughly the same time: no one else was really doing it for you, so why not? So what if you only directly referred to each other as boyfriend and girlfriend in the privacy of your own apartment, or his? So what if half of the office was entirely clueless about your relationship and the other half was actively placing “secret” bets about how long you two had been fucking? Annoyingly, Tim had been the one to be almost right: “six months ago, I’m telling you, man. That’s when he stopped eating secretaries and she got so much nicer.”

Technically, he stopped eating secretaries about a month into your relationship, and what Tim accidentally overheard was not him “eating” a “secretary”, but you weren’t about to correct him. But Max found it all hilarious: “he’s right, you’re so much nicer when that pussy has been taken care of. But I like it when you’re mean.”

You actively choose not to think about what he meant by a “deep emotional connection” last time.

Fine, Phillips, I’ll show you how mean I can be.

“Nope, no, uh uh.”

You put your hand just over the frilly blue lace on your hip. “I’m sorry, I don’t see the problem.”

It had been about a month since first base and while Max had gotten notably more relaxed around you seeing him eat – he now occasionally walked around your apartment with his food in an opaque smoothie tumbler with a straw – he was still very strict about moving onto second base.

Which, if left up to him, meant you’d be wearing a straight jacket and thick flannel pajamas.

“Max, if we’re ever going to do this thing for real, you’re going to have to get used to seeing me naked. I’m not letting you fuck me and bite me while I’m in riot gear.”

“Okay, but, baby,” he whines and he can’t help himself from rubbing the satin bow above your crotch between his fingers. “You look like a birthday cake.”

Is the baby blue lingerie with a strapless bra that catches around your biceps with white lace a bit overboard? Yes. But last time was ridiculous.

Max frowns, his visible pout morphing into something subtly dangerous as he realizes he can unpeel your bra with a string in the back. “Can’t I just fuck you normally in this and then we’ll try again later?”

You swat his hand away as it sneaks across your ribs.

“No.”

“You know, if I wasn’t already dead, I’d think you’re trying to kill me.” Smirking, he drops his hands down to your waist and, not so subtly, curves them around the mold of your ass. Distractedly, he slips one finger under the seam of your panties. You press your hands against his chest and blink up at him coyly.

“Whatever gave you that impression.”

He shakes his head, squeezing your ass once. “And I’m supposed to be the soulless demon with a heart of darkness.”

“So you’ll do this?”

With a sigh and his eyebrow jumping, he nods. “Yeah. Fine. Go get on the bed.”

Trying desperately not to squeal, you tear away from his arms and all but run and leap on top of the white towel. Max slips out of his shoes, and starts unbuttoning his shirt. You bite your lip, nerves humming in anticipation, as you sit up on your knees to watch him. To your enormous dismay, no matter how hard you worked, no matter how much spit or cum you used, you could not make him purr again. You’d had wet dreams on the idea alone of putting your head against his chest as he vibrated but he swore it was involuntary. “And,” he added as a way to soothe your ego, “I’m pretty sure it can only happen when I’m feeding.”

“Does it happen every time? Like with blood bags or back when you hunted people?”

“No,” was all he said about that.

Max slips his shirt off over his shoulders and goes to work unbuttoning his pants. When they slide off his hips, you frown.

“The boxers with the hole in the waist? Ooh, baby, I’m so turned on when you make such an effort.”

He rolls his eyes as he climbs in next to you. “Look, I didn’t think you’d be seeing my underwear and I need to do laundry.”

“You didn’t think I’d see your underwear in a situation where we’re going to specifically jerk each other off?”

Attempting some version of contrite, Max’s gaze falls from your face to your throat, to your clavicle, to your tits, pillowed up for him beneath the blue lace. He leans in as if pulled by magnets.

“I’m sorry if I thought we’d both be a little more preoccupied.”

His broad palm smooths across your thigh, around your hips, to just above your tailbone, his nose drawing indistinct lines from your shoulder to your ear. You sort of hate how quickly he can make you not irritated with him. You shift to take him into the cradle of your thighs, when he winds your panties up in his fingers and tugs. The gossamer material tightens just over the seam of your pussy, teasing your clit, you choke. That heated, teasing Max Phillips smirk spreads like hot butter across his lips.

“What are the rules again?”

“Max,” you whine as you drag your nails over his chest and up his shoulders. But he hesitates, his hand knotting your underwear in his fist. One move and it’ll rub against you again.

“I’ll stop,” he murmurs in a half-sing-song voice. You huff.

“Silver. Bad touch, on your skin. Lightheaded or dizzy, I use the safeword. And,” you sigh. He’s so painfully handsome sometimes it hurts. He’d set out candles again, as if he needed any help in his seduction of you and he just sort of glows. You don’t know if it’s your anticipation or some vampire illusion, but every line on him is blurred. Soft, as if he doesn’t have your pleasure literally in his hands. There it comes again, that small bit of light in his eyes, the emergence of the early morning sun over the horizon. The way he looks at you makes your chest heavy. “And . . . only hand stuff,” you grumble.

He chuckles, pouting at you in faux-sympathy as he reaches out, other hand wrapping around the back of your neck. “Only hand stuff, she’s so sad about it,” he whimpers into your cheek with a high, mocking voice.

Your fingers dig into the skin on his chest, daring to hold him away as he goes for your mouth. “I swear to god, Max –,”

In one single fluid motion, he pushes on your tailbone, and swings your hips forward as he tackles your mouth with his own, effectively yanking you under him. You huff in surprise, before pulling away to find menace and glee in his eyes. Grins again as he nips with flat teeth on the curve of your neck.

He plants wet, hot kisses across your chest, heat blooms against your ribs and tunnels down between your legs, as he tongues the softer places along the hollow of your throat, then up the other side of your throat, teasing your earlobe.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, “that was mean. What can I do to make it up to you?”

Pressing your chest up against his, knowing he can feel the squish of your tits, you wrap your legs around his waist and pull him towards you. His hard cock rubs up against your seam and he lets loose with a muffled groan into your mouth. You roll your hips once with him between you and he turns his head to your jaw, as you both pant at the sensation.

“You know exactly what I want.”

His teeth graze you gently. This is an exercise in restraint for you as much as it is him. Given any other night, you’d have his pants off by now, on his back, or behind you, but you refrain. You can’t squeeze him like you want to and that only frustrates you more, makes you heated and ruffled, makes you want more of his skin on you, around you, as if he could smother you. You want to merge your bodies. Your knees dig into his ribs.

He whispers something, too low and fast for you to catch it, but it ends broken and uneasy as if you’re touching something delicate within him. Bending back with one hand, Max reaches between your legs and cups you, one finger barely pressing the wet material back inside you.

“Was this waiting for me under all those layers?” You nod as he pushes deeper, your mouth dropping open. He kisses your chin, before tucking his head under your jaw again. “No wonder you were burning up.”

He inhales as if his face was pressed right up against your cunt, two fingers rubbing up and down over that sodden material. It scraps against your clit and it burns. “I could eat you. Just like this.”

“Max, c’mon–,”

“I know, baby, I know.”

Smearing that pink little bow with the smell of you, he dips his hand under the line of your underwear, past your damp curls, and soothes your overheated sex by filling it with two thick fingers. You arch, brow furrowing, mouth open, fingers clamping down around his shoulders, arousal crawling up your spine, higher and higher the deeper he goes. Max likes the build up, the tease, it’s why his thumb only hovers above your clit, the heat doing half the work for him, as he pumps his fingers in and out of you, the wet squelching almost embarrassing. Behind his hand, his hips swing in time. He groans, deep, into your ear, breathless.

“Could come like this, baby, could come right like this.”

The bend of his cock bumps the back of his hand as he thrusts against nothing. You hitch your pelvis up, opening wider, pussy easier within reach, and you forgo any teasing for him, hand sliding right past his boxers, molding your grip around him. He’s hot and leaking all over your fingers.

“‘Ngh . . . shit, baby.” The arm holding him up shakes. You want to lick the salty precum but there has to be a rule about that, right? If you aren’t so desperate for that final fuck, you would have been a bit more careless. His fingers inside you press up into the places only he knows can send you into oblivion, as if grateful for tearing him apart. His wrist flicks quicker, faster into you, fingers plunging deeper, up to the knuckles, bouncing you as if you were on his cock. You match his speed with your own hand and Max hums, a dark sound verging on distressed.

You bite your bottom lip, eyes drooping, the rocking motion scraping against your pleasure again and again, like a match scratching against the box one stroke at a time. “Maaax –,” He adds a third finger and you keen, high-pitched and desperate, the width stretching you out for a cock he won’t let you have. You grind against his fingers, the bounce knocking loose every sane thought in your head.

Opening your eyes, you realize he’s been staring at your tits this whole time. His chest warm and glowing with sweat, his eyes track every bounce and jiggle, the cups of your bra putting them more on display than if you held them up yourself.

“Where do you want it, darling?” His voice is strained, softer than it should be with your cunt sucking up his fingers.

Max Phillips doesn’t do cutesy nicknames. Not during sex, not ever. Your his slut. His monsterfucker. Not –

Your already unspooling mind struggles to grasp at darling before it slips away.

His cock is throbbing against the palm of your hand. If you could see it, it would be flushed red, the vein at the base protruding. You pump him faster and his hips stutter. He’s so close and so are you.

But he’s not talking about that.

“On my tit, Max. Bite me on my tit.”

With a groan that is all growl, all tension and feral hunger, his arm collapses and he sinks his weight against you. He manages to get his hand out, but yours is still trapped there, pinned between your tender cunt and his painfully hard cock. You writhe. “Max–,”

His kiss against your lips is a starving sort of one, one that steals the breath from your lungs, wiping any lingering ache temporarily from your body. He licks the inside of your mouth, swallowing the moan that races from your throat into his. It’s all need, desire, a blistering familiarity that you didn’t realize existed between you two. He’s trying to say something with this kiss.

He doesn’t give you long to read into it, as he pulls back, sinking more into his knees as he mouths the skin under your neck, above your clavicle bone, and in between the valley of your tits. His weight shifts off you, enough to pull your hand out. You arch, pushing your chest deeper into his mouth, using the back of his neck to pull you higher, he groans and licks, and you yank the tie of your bra behind your back.

“Max, you can –,”

His hand claws at your cups, mouth consuming yours again, the ropes almost stinging your back as they are ripped so fast across your heated skin. Before you lie flat, his hand cups under you, fingers pressing into where the threads burned and forcing you to maintain that bend in your spine.

The moment is coming. You can feel it. It’s different from a rising orgasm, or the first time he ever sucked your nipple into his mouth. Your lizard brain is sending off warning flares, but you ignore it once again. Those flares arc and bend, your arousal now fire hot.

His tongue pressed flat, Max draws a long stripe of spit from under your breast, over the weight of it, and up your nipple, where he swirls it between his teeth. Whether Max Phillips was an ass or tits man depended on the day of the week, or whatever was blowing in the air, but he laved attention onto yours like they were the first pair he’d ever seen in his life. The skin on your other breast shines from where his fingers mold around it, smearing your wet juices all over your pebbled skin. He switches over and laps up that smell off you.

He’s wavering, caught between drawing it out and doing it so instantaneously he might black out and miss the whole thing. Your heart racing, skin almost too sensitive, you feel like you might shudder apart.

“Max, please –,”

He chooses the second approach.

Without warning, his fangs spring out and he latches onto the skin near the valley of your chest on your right breast.

You yelp in surprise, pain and pleasure zigzagging like rough scissors from his bite out through the rest of your body.

Okay, that hurts.

You gasp, bucking, yanking on his hair. “Baby, baby, gentler, be gentle–,”

He swallows and the ache lessens. Hot blood pools out of the spot where his fangs punctured you. It runs warm then cold, teasing like a feather, as it rolls down your stomach. It’s not a lot, but it's more than last time. It stains his chest too.

Slowly, that same sort of miraculous fog sinks down into your bones. The grip on his hair eases, softens, and soon you are petting him against you.

You swear you feel his fangs scrape your heart.

“That’s good, Max, that’s so good.” Your eyes roll lazily in your head and you nuzzle his hair. “God, how does this feel so good?”

As though determined to remind you he is more than just fangs, his hand pulls away from the mattress and slides back between your legs. You feel only one finger brush against your folds through your underwear – you’re almost disappointed, go back to using three, Max –

His finger plunges deep, deep inside of you, and you gasp, feet scrambling against the towel, as a swell of pleasure almost smothers you in an overwhelming wave. You nearly choke from the force of it. You were so overly sensitive but the gooey haze didn’t let you realize it until it was too late. You come hard, harder than you thought possible, seeing eons of galaxies and stars behind your eyes, with just one of his fingers inside you and his thumb distractedly circling your clit.

He feels you gush around his hand, wetting his wrist, and with a moan you can feel in your ribs, he spills in his boxers, the spend running down his thigh and smearing on yours.

Your entire body goes slack, as if someone had made all your bones disappear. His hips jerk slightly as if his orgasm is still trying to wring him dry before he stills and plucks his head from your chest, unplugging his fangs from the holes he made.

Blood immediately bubbles up from the wound and without his fangs there, it spills freely and violently over your tits, your ribs. The whiplash between your orgasmic high and a full-body weakness sends hot nausea swooping into your stomach and the room spins.

“M-m-ax,” you murmur, barely opening your mouth, your voice weak and thick as if stuffed with cotton balls.

“Fuck, sorry –,” you can’t quite see him clearly as he moves and suddenly there’s a warmth over your chest, comforting and heavy. The blood trickles to a stop and you breathe deeply. The darkness of the room stabilizes as you fully open your eyes. The room spins but this time pleasantly.

“Hmm, whoo, wow, ah, okay . . .”

You don’t realize he’s gotten off the bed until the mattress sags again and he’s cleaning you up with cold cotton balls.

“So, I’m going to take that mindless babbling as a good thing.” He smiles gently, but he’s holding something back. He keeps his head low like he doesn’t want you to see his face.

You wiggle your shoulders, as he delicately wipes you down. “What, you don’t wanna clean me up with your tongue? And why do you even use disinfectant – there’s no open wound.” You poke him in the shoulder with your toe. “And you didn’t even purr that time! I demand a refund!”

“Next time, okay?”

You frown. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Just let me–,”

You sit up, the dried blood pinching your skin, and he pulls away. “Max, what is it?”

He pulls away so much, he’s on his feet by the dresser before you can touch him, the back of his arm tearing at his mouth to wipe it clean. Max is a lot of things but cold when you need aftercare is not one of them.

“It’s nothing.” The line of his shoulders is taught, tense. But he cracks his neck and takes the Gatorade from the dresser. He finally sits back down on the bed in front of you, offering the bottle to you. You take it, unease mounting, your fingers brush his, but this time he doesn’t retreat. Instead, gently, his fingertips ghost over your wrist, down the fine hairs on your arm, drop from your elbow and settle delicately on the blue material covering the crease of your hip. Where your blood had pooled, wet, and stained the blue to a deep magenta.

“I ruined your pretty underwear,” he says softly, forlorn.

You move closer to him, your knee touching his hip, but you refrain from seeking out the warmth of his hands.

“Max, I can get new ones, I don’t care about that. Please, talk to me. Did I do something wrong? Did I push you too far?”

His fingers flex around the towel, now also appropriately ruined. He shakes his head, more firmly this time. He snags his shirt off the floor, over his head, then moves towards the bedroom door.

“I don’t wanna talk about it. I’m sticky. I’m gonna take a shower. You wanna come?”

The invitation, it’s something, an encouragement you genuinely feared he might not give. Maybe it’s not you he wants to part from.

You didn’t enter into this for the emotional connection and neither did he. You have to remember that.

“Y-yeah. Of course.”

He invited you. He still wants you around.

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#max phillips x you #max phillips smut #max phillips fanfiction #max phillips x reader #max phillips #max phillips x f!reader #blood sucking bastards

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doahaesunshine · 8 months ago

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Chapter 7

Chapter WC: 2573

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Chapter kinda hurts

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You know it’s killing you right? This sadness.”

Seungcheol wasn’t judging his friend, and it was never his intention either, but he couldn’t help feeling like trash for trying to force himself into his friend's thoughts. He just wished he could go into their mind and pluck away at all the bad memories.

A loud scoff resonated through the room, forcing Seungcheol back into reality.

“Cheolie. I’m fine.”

Their words came out weak and a piercing silence followed after their sentence.

“Seriously, don’t worry about me. I’m still truckin’ along.”

The words were hollow. Just silly noises to distract Seungcheol from his concerns. The worst thing was that it almost worked.

Seungcheol wanted so badly to believe his friend, he really did. The desperation for things to be good threatened to overwrite any rational thought. If he needed to pretend, so be it. He would be happy to oblige.

But when he saw the too-dark under eyes and the terrifyingly prominent lines of cheekbones, he knew make-believe was impossible. His friend was eroding and if he didn’t intervene it was going to eat them alive.

“You need to listen to me. Sooner or later this isn’t going to be something you can joke about. You stopped going to therapy into the first year of grieving. You gave yourself no time to heal. It was straight to business, class, work, responsibilities.”

He regretted it. The words came out too harsh and Seungcheol felt like an asshole. The only response he received was silence. His friend avoided eye contact and remained silent.

“I-uh.” They stuttered over their words as they stood. “I gotta go-”

This was it, this was the moment his childhood friend realized they didn’t want him around anymore.

“Y/N, wait!”

December 29

Seungcheol’s phone blared through his bedroom. For the past four days he was waking up to his ringtone and a list of missed call notifications. Rolling over, he ignored the phone as he pressed his face into his pillow. After finding the bag in the river he shut himself in his room.

He used the excuse of needing to think so that he could stay awake late at night, hoping that his friend would call or text. It was a fantasy that he knew he had to throw away, but he didn’t have the willpower to bring himself back to reality.

His phone rang again and with a groan he swiped it off his nightstand and answered.

“Hello?” His voice was rough and in desperate need of water.

“Hi. May I speak to Seungcheol Choi?” The voice was feminine and unfamiliar.

“This is he.” He replied.

“My name is Gywnn Harris, I’m a detective working with the local police department.” Her tone was polite and calm. “I’m calling to inform you that I am leading the investigation of the disappearance of your friend, Y/N L/N. If you’re able I would appreciate it if you could give me any information before their disappearance.”

Seungcheol sat up in his bed and leaned against the headboard. “I’d be more than happy to give anything that would help with the investigation. Should I see you at the station?”

“That would be ideal, anytime before noon is best.”

“Alright, I’ll be there shortly.” Seungcheol stood from his bed and hung up the call after exchanging goodbyes.

There was a moment of hesitation as he turned his attention to a water damaged, leather, messenger bag. After his brother found it in the river, Seungcheol took it upon himself to deliver it to the police. But upon seeing its contents he decided against it.

He unlatched the flap of the messenger bag and fished out a small sketchbook. The pages were filled with sketches of nature: trees, flowers, and animals, specifically birds. Among the drawings were entries, poems and short stories.

Memories.

Seungcheol flipped to a random page and read one of the poems.

My shoes feel like they are made of cement. Every step is heavy and slow. One misplaced step and I’ll sink Into the undertow

Both of the friends he lost had an interest in the arts, a painter and photographer, but the one art they had in common was poetry. Seungcheol could never bring himself to pick up a pen to draw or write and he only took pictures of food and his family. He was always more of an observer. He read his friends poems, studied the paintings and admired the photos. Now that both of them were gone there was no more creativity.

The world was growing gray around him and it was suffocating.

Seungcheol closed the journal and tucked it back into the bag.

“This is ridiculous.” He muttered to himself as he hid the evidence under his bed.

The police department wasn’t far from his family’s residence, just a short drive into town. Life had returned to the buildings as Christmas had ended, no reason for the shops to be closed anymore. Thankfully the police station wasn’t busy.

As Seungcheol entered the station, he observed his surroundings. Everyone was working at a steady pace, mingling or organizing stray papers. He wasn’t surprised, a stolen bike or simple vandalism was the most exciting thing these small town cops were offered. Even then, those incidents only happen once every few months.

He approached the front desk where an older woman with mousy brown hair and wire framed glasses sat, looking over some papers in her hand. She perked up when he noticed him before her.

“Good morning. I’m looking for Detective Harris?” Seungcheol kept his tone friendly.

The woman took note of Seungcheol’s question and after filing away a paper, she stood, pointing to the back of the room.

“Detective Harris is usually at her desk, it’ll be on the left side of the room, dear.” Her voice was pleasant but raspy with age.

Seungcheol gently smiled and nodded as he thanked the woman. He swiftly made his way in the direction of Detective Harris’s desk, not wanting to waste any time. As he scanned the name plates of the desks he stopped at one that read: Det. G. Harris

The woman sitting at the desk had her nose nearly pressed to the monitor, a blue glow reflecting off of her skin. Her black hair was choppy and tied back in a messy bun, a few pieces sticking out and obscuring her face. She looked up from her screen as Seungcheol approached. A smile spread on her lips as she stood.

She held out her hand. “You must be Seungcheol Choi, nice to meet you!” There was a brassy quality to her voice that the phone wasn’t able to pick up, she sounded older than she looked.

Seungcheol reciprocated the handshake. “Please, just Seungcheol. Cheol if it’s too hard to pronounce.”

“Nonsense! My grandmother is Korean, I’m familiar with the language.” She pointed to a chair behind Seungcheol. “Pull up a seat. This will just be a few questions, shouldn’t take too long.”

Seungcheol did as he was told and obediently dragged a chair toward Detective Harris’s desk.

“Alright.” She started to say as she pulled out a notebook and pen. “We’ll start simple. When was the last time you saw your friend?”

“Christmas Eve. I spent most of the afternoon with them. I’d say it was around four in the evening when I last saw them.” Seungcheol was detailed in his response. “We didn’t talk after that, I sent a text at midnight, but they didn’t even open it.”

When Seungcheol’s speaking faded into silence the only thing that was heard was the scribbling of pen on paper. After another moment of writing Detective Harris met Seungcheol’s gaze again.

“Did they say anything odd when you two were hanging out?”

Seungcheol had to think about his answer. It was the usual banter and Christmas Eve isn’t usually a happy time for the two of them so anything would appear bleak.

“Nothing out of the ordinary.” It was a half truth. His friend was usually on the gloomier side, but nothing they said alerted him to anything dangerous.

“Okay.” Harris responded as she continued writing. “Was there anyone in Y/N’s life that had a want to harm them?”

The question took Seungcheol off guard. He thought about the people that surrounded his friend’s life. There were coworkers, but not many friends and the only family they had was their father.

“They uh- didn’t have many friends. It was really only me and their father. A few people they worked with at the local cafe, but other than that, there weren’t many people they talked to.”

More scribbling followed by a moment of stillness. Detective Harris took a breath before she spoke.

“I spoke with Y/N’s father yesterday. He said his child struggled with depression, did you know this?”

Seungcheol sighed and pinched his nose bridge as he felt a dull ache in his forehead. “Yeah- Yes, I knew about that. I spoke with them about it often.”

He was hoping to keep his friend’s mental health hidden from the detective, but daddy dearest soiled that plan.

“Were they contemplating their life?”

Seungcheol snapped his eyes back to Detective Harris, his expression must have been a sight to behold because even the detective appeared as though she regretted the question.

“No.” He spoke in an even tone, voice low. “They may have had their ups and downs, but they were never suicidal.”

Another lie, but Seungcheol didn’t care. He wanted to make sure that the police would search for his friend, not a corpse.

The new year brought no new evidence and no closure to Seungcheol. Every day passed with more anxiety and less sleep. Detective Harris had no new leads and each conversation between himself and her had the continuous connotation that his friend committed suicide.

He took each day with a grain of salt and a heavy heart. Working behind the counter of his family’s hardware shop became mundane, he had no enthusiasm or energy to help his father and brother with any in-home repairs that needed to be done. His friend’s father hasn’t been much help either. Seungcheol had been visiting, bringing food his mother made over to feed the man but the conversations were bland and many things were left unsaid.

Sitting at the dinner table, nearly two weeks since losing them, his family ate in relative silence aside from utensils hitting the plates. Though his family could be loud during dinner, bringing up old stories or things they heard around town, these days it was hollow. Most times as of recently Seungcheol brought his food to his room, eating as he read over their journal night after night.

There was no way his friend would have killed themself, he had no doubt that they didn’t. They had only lost their spark, lost in the grief that they didn’t let themself process and instead pushed it aside to busy their mind and body.

His mother had turned on the TV to fill the void tonight, letting the local news play without much thought.

“ Tonight, we tell you with heavy hearts that evidence regarding the missing person’s case for Y/N L/N has surfaced.”

His heart stopped. His family visibly paused hearing the broadcaster’s words.

As he raised his head, tired eyes locking on the screen, he watched the scene change to Detective Harris standing along the river, much further down than he was with his brother those two weeks ago.

“Hello everyone, this is Detective Gwynn Harris. I have been the lead investigator regarding the L/N case and tonight I bring not so great news. At 6:30 tonight, the department received an anonymous call stating that they found a bag belonging to the victim with an empty bottle of prescription painkillers and a series of poems that it seems they wrote themselves. Upon further investigation when the team arrived, there were pictures folded within the pages of Seokmin Lee who was a close friend to the victim.” Harris sighed, her face clearly showing despair yet she held it together. A second camera was zooming in on the bag in question. Seungchoel had seen it days prior on the floor of their room.

“ The department and I will be taking this evidence and releasing it back to the family once everything is collected. With this new evidence, we are ruling this missing person’s case a suicide. I send my condolences to their family, friends and loved ones, thank you.”

The scene changed once more, the news reporter sitting up straighter and reading off the papers before her. “ Two years ago we reported on the missing person Seokmin Lee. The case was a town tragedy seeing he was said to be a sunshine to everyone he met. No body was recovered however a vigil was held for him and tonight we heard from Detective Harris where the circumstances were similar. That is all we have for-”

He couldn’t hear it any longer, his blood was boiling. He needed to see their father.

“Cheol wait-” His mother’s words fell on deaf ears, barely getting his shoes on before grabbing his keys and wallet.

Speeding was the least of his concern when he reached his friend’s childhood home. The lights in the living room were on, he had half a mind to bust the door down and demand to know what was going on. He had been at their house that week and went through some of their things. He knew that bag was kicked under their desk since the strap had snapped over time and it couldn’t be worn outside anymore.

Seungcheol marched up to the door and banged his fist against it, jaw tense, muscles rigid. When the door opened, his friend’s father was shocked to see him, words barely seeming to sputter out.

“Oh- Cheol. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, I just got the call-”

“That’s bullshit and you know it.” Venom laced his words, chest raising and falling in deep breaths to keep the anger within him at bay. “What did you do?”

Bewildered, the older gentleman took a step back, “I don’t know what you are talking about, Seungcheol.”

“I asked; what did you do?” He repeated, staring daggers into the other. “You and I both know they haven’t used that bag in years, even before Seokmin- Even before everything happened. It was tossed aside in their room and I even pointed it out to you in some sorry attempt at a joke that they never threw it away.”

Seungcheol was outraged, so much so that he was calm. Deadly calm.

He stepped inside and shut the door behind himself, watching as their father stepped back.

“Do you think I’m an idiot? Do you think I would just believe that crap that Harris spouted about on TV?” His nostrils flared in anger. “What are you trying to play at?! What kind of parent purposefully makes it look like their child killed themselves?!”

The yell caught the other man off guard. He held up his hands in defense. The facade he put up faltered.

“Cheol, you don’t understand it all, it's complicated.”

“Complicated? Complicated?! That you are faking their death?! You planted that and called it in yourself! Don’t even try to lie to me!”

“You don’t understand the forces at play, Cheol! I didn’t have a choice!”

To join a tag list, please comment on the Fallin' Flower Master List!

@reiofsuns2001 @shinwonderful @starstrawb

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fallenclan · 2 years ago

Note

Saw people sharing Clangen stories and thought I would contribute with my absolute FAVOURITE pair of cats from the first Clan I ever recorded

So I started with Two apprentices, Dustpaw and Needlepaw. They're the same age, both cute sprites, and Needlepaw is apprenticed to the leader Yarrowstar. Things are decent until they turn 10 moons and a dog breaks into camp, attempts to kill Dustpaw, and then is killed by Needlepaw. And Needlepaw, this absolute Chad, does not die!!! In the same moon, both he and Dustpaw get their warrior names, despite Dustpaw being almost 10 points behind Needlepaw in EXP the prev moon. (Also in this moon, the Deputy Tawnyfur has a fight with Needlepaw about his recklessness, and they got closer afterwards. Important to remember!)

So they get their Warrior names (Needlestrike and Dustwhisper-who is a lonesome personality, btw-, both. So so fitting) and Needlestrike has to stay in the med den for awhile because the dog completely totaled him and he ends up loosing half his face+his vision. But that's okay!! Because he has Dustwhisper with him and they're together!!! So Needlestrike gets better, it's all great!

And then Tawnyfur (Needlestrikes very good friend!!!!) and Dustwhispers former mentor Slatefire both drown in a river. And who gets appointed as Deputy? Needlestrike! So he's doing well, he helps raise the loner kits that the clan brings in, he's a great deputy, and Dustwhisper is getting even closer with him, wonderful! And then he goes and gets his leg caught in a twoleg trap, and THEN his vision stars getting worse. And the whole like 5 moons that he's confined to the medicine den Dustwhisper does not stop thinking about him ONCE. She is there all the time, sharing tongues with him, gathering herbs every Moon rollover, just being the number 1 supportive gf.

Once he's healed (with permenant blindness and a limp), he and Dustwhisper take on apprentices together, named Talonpaw and Snappaw. After a LONG apprentice period (interspersed with camp fires, disease burrows and like. A bunch of other stuff) the two of them finally get together <3 They have kits pretty much straight away, named Robinkit and Nettlekit, who look exactly like Needlestrike. It's adorable seriously.

And then Needlestrike dies eating poisoned prey (along with 6 other clanmates, including Dustwhispers former App Snapjaw) And who becomes deputy in his place? DUSTWHISPER. Who proceeds to get whitecough twice and miss the entirety of her children's apprenticeships because she's sick. And then as soon as she gets out, who's dead? Oh! Yarrowstar! So NOW Duststar is leader, having never wanted to be leader, having lost her husband and having barely any relationship with her children. AND NEEDLESTRIKE ISNT PART OF HER CEREMONY EITHER SHE DOESN'T EVEN SEE HIM IN DEATH.

Duststar makes Needlestrikes only apprentice, Talonbubble, her deputy. They get along relatively well, but Duststar spends her first ten moons as leader grieving, so all of the work is left to Talonbubble who is like. 20 moons. Then Duststar immediately gets redcough, which spreads through the clan and KILLS HER SON NETTLEBURST. For the next 20 odd moons she does not recover, loosing 2 lives to redcough and then yellowcough :'(

The fact that after Needlestrike dies, Duststar is never ever well for more than a few moons. It's like her grief is physically manifesting in her constant boughts of whitecough. (Which is total juxtaposition from Yarrowstar, who didn't mourn when any of his clanmates died, not even Needlestrike, and lost no lives before old age took him.)

I haven't played with this clan in like. Months and might never again but Duststar makes me so miserable I just had to share her. (Hopefully this anon tag isn't taken, using it purely so I can send another ask about Scorchstar the evil girlfalure at another time-🧶)

holy SHIT. head in hands. duststar you poor poor cat

#i am such a sucker for a tragedy and this fuckin Does It. Yeowch #she didnt even see him in her leader ceremony :(((#fallenasks #yarn anon #<is it because you spin a good yarn. teehee

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sirswooshnoodles · 1 year ago

Text

Image descriptions: many many tags:

#as a jeweler: DEAR GOD WHAT HAVE THEY DONE #if thats actual garnet. why would you do that to it #if it isnt: ill kill you for lying #but from the photos alone: that isnt silver

#thats some mystery metal shit that you dont want touching your skin because why does it look like its rusting

#when silver us dirty even from soldering it doesnt ever look luke that

#AND ANOTHER THING! that prong setting? not even fully closed half those prongs are barely touching that stone that shits gonna be wiggling-

#and wobling scratching up that stone and being a nusiance to keep clean PLUS its gonna get caught on everything

#ALSO from the look of the stones in all of them #theyve been touched woth heat and are damaged. dont buy damaged stones theyre gonna break eventually

#but anyway those almost def arwnt garnet. from the look of the other settings id say a shitty quality cubic zirc because those are - #settings you can only do by casting (or gluing them in like costume jewelery)

#whoch makes me wonder what castong house would stoop That

Low

#all the canadian ones wont even take ur order without proof of professional trainin

#okay im done i gotta go to work

#sorry laz im back #THE VISIBLE SOLDERI G GOD

#i would have been ripped to shreds o the solder job alone if i tried to present that as even a first attempt at a prong setting

#WHY DIDNT THEY CLEAN THE FUCKING SOLDER BLOBS

#its kne thing if ur setting is fucked but to be visibly VISIBLY a shitty rush job with no clean up work #come ON PEOPLE

#this os all im going to think about for the next 7 hours of my shift i

‹now it

#its. so poorly made

#like they went throigh the effort of goving a fairly decent effort in the photography. AS IF THE WOULD HELP THE SLAPPED TOGETHER BULLSHIT

#im just #im astounded

#if this was practice work i wouldnt bat an eye

#BUT THATS THE FUCKING FINISHED PRODUCT #THATS WHAT THEYRE SELLING

#i would be too ashamed of the piss poor craftsmanship to even consider selli g that with my name attatched #im just. im just. why are they so dirty

#did you not even try to clean them nameless etsy seller????

#you can see the spots where they filed and sanded. but they didnt bother to clean anything. why is it so crusty

#they could be just ok. but there is ZERO finishing work done #like they skipped the most intensive part of the process #you cant just skip finishing work man

#like even if you dont polish them you dont have to polish them #but you need to clean. you need to tske off the solder blobs and you need to clean whatever scum is stuck to your metal

#laz tell me one thing what kind of metal are they advertising this as i need to know

#prev. the metal on all listings is Sterling Silver

#STERLING????? I THINK THE FUCK NOT

#first off. thats too dark to be sterling. SECOND. STERLING AT NO POINT STARTS TO LOOK LIKE THAT NO MATTER HOW DIRTY #it looks also like those have never NEVER seen a pickle pot let alone some soap and water

#sterling at no point becomes slightly yellow

#not even nickle silver (a common alloy people try to pass off as sterling) looks like that after soldering and nickle silver looks gnarly-#before you pickle it and do your finishing on it. like thats not even nickle??? unnamed etsy seller i have questions

#like. are they intentionally and willfully decieving people? or were they lied to by a supplier and dont have the training to know that??

#Also. the second to last ring. baby girl why is the metal itsself cracked. who hurt you

End of tags

Next image is a stick figure holding a box of popcorn with a speech bubble saying “damn”.

End descriptions.

I believe all these tags are from the same person but who isn’t shown so I’m not 100% sure.

Note: typos in the tags are from the photos I didn’t feel like fixing them

kinda obsessed with these, clearly beginner, rings on Etsy being marketed as garnet when i'd bet money that they are glass

the metal work is. certainly better than what i've ever made, so i don't want to speak to harshly. but uh. um.

#image description #image described #jewelry #etsyseller #etsyfinds #complete beginner jewelry

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23swife · 10 months ago

Text

remedy (v) — sam winchester

> prev, masterlist

summary: you deal with the aftermath of dean’s visit and your outing with sam, it goes half-way according to plan — tags: underage!reader, 22 year old!sam, med student!fem!reader, cursing, said shorter but it’s a ‘jared’ shorter, he’s 6’4.

“Are you…” Sam sighs and you can hear how tired he is, “are you okay?” Today’s been a lot for him. Dean made another appearance after Sam thought it was over, both of you came back to the apartment for a reason— so maybe you’re thinking of yourself a little, but still it’s been stressful for him.

And you just slammed the door in his face. “Changing.”

“The clothes are out here.” You curse at yourself and purse your lips. You open the door slightly, just enough to see Sam’s face, his long tousled hair, and him holding out the pile of clothes to you. You snatch them from his hand and shut the door again.

They fit well, Sam’s only a couple of inches taller than you so it’s almost okay, the shirt’s a little too long but the pants are sweats so with a tight knot, they hang low enough that it looks cute.

You exhale shakily before opening the door and then letting out a breath of relief that he’s not here. You fold your clothes and put them on Gen’s desk, right next to her books, and take out your phone.

It might seem pathetic, a little childish, but come on, you’re spending the night with Sam, you have the right to be those things to Jess.

You: I’m staying over.

Jess: Over my dead fucking body.

You: Just sleeping. In gen’s room.

Jess: Girl that’s even sadder.

You: Not a word, whore.

Jess: Is so, slut (for Sam).

You: Not funny, Jess. Don’t tell Gen anything, okay? Besides i'm here for Sam, he wants me to stay.

It sounds even more feeble actually typed out.

Jess: Why doesn’t he go talk to lily?

You: He said they’re not together.

Jess: BITCH YOU TALKED TO HIM ABOUT IT?

You: How is that a bad thing?

Jess: IT'S PATHETIC AND DESPERATE!!! I’m going to kill you when I see you.

You shut your phone off and hide it underneath your pillow. Everything will work itself out, with Sam and Dean and Jess and freakin finals that you have next week. You finished anatomy which means there’s physiology and biochemistry 104 left for next week. Which you’ve hardly opened having just finished your histology exam.

Someone— Sam, obviously— knocks on the door and you tuck your hair behind your ear before saying he could come in. Sam’s brushed his own down, it looks much calmer than it’s usual ‘let it be’ hairstyle he has going for him. He shuts the door behind him— is the air getting thin?

“Look, you say the word and I’ll drive you back home—”

“What? Where’s this coming from?” He raises one eyebrow and takes a step towards you, flustering you so fast, just the way he takes his steps, stares into your eyes, and you stare at your fingers in your lap.

“You slamming the door in my face, you sleeping in Gen’s room, and now you’re not even looking at me, so if you don’t want this—”

“What is this, though?” Your voice drops, slow and cautious. “What is it? Are we…”

He walks over to where you’re sitting, sits down in front of you and reaches one hand out to brush his thumb over your knuckles, “We can’t figure that out if you keep acting like this. And I really like you when you’re not being like— when you aren’t acting scared and shy. You’re the most thoughtful friend, kind.”

“Right, but as a… not-friend, I guess; it wouldn’t work out.”

He shakes his head quickly, “That’s not what I’m saying. It would work if you stopped being so afraid! Of me, or what’s going to happen! Whatever you’re scared of, just don’t be.”

“That’s stupid, Sam,” you pull your fingers away from him so his hand is laying on your lap, barely on your thigh and you keep staring at it, not looking him in the eye quite yet, “being cautious is what helps me stay happy and whole, you know? The second I let my guard down—”

“What? What do you think is gonna happen?”

“I haven’t even known you that long! It’s been three weeks.” He scoffs like that’s the lamest excuse he’s heard in his life and his hand is no longer on your thigh, only God knows where it is because you’re definitely not looking up to see.

“If you don’t look at me while we’re talking then this’ll never fucking work.” The anger in his voice burned like a wildfire inside of you, consuming. it's terrifying how well it works as you involuntarily look up at him.

It’s not that you’re scared of Sam or that you can’t maintain eye contact, you’ve done so various times, but this feels different, like he’ll dive into your soul if you look into his eyes for too long.

“Sam, I’m not being dramatic about this,” you reinforce, harsher this time, because you know what you feel, and he won’t make it seem small and insignificant. It isn’t. This is exactly what’s helped you avoid heartbreak for the past seventeen years.

“I’m not sayin’ you are. But being scared, nervous, whatever, about this is what makes it worth it. I’m not rushing you, if you wanna take it slower, we will, but I need to know how you feel, otherwise someone’s gonna get hurt and it’ll be because you didn’t tell me what you want right now. You gotta talk to me.”

His eyes up-close are easier to read. He’s desperate for answers, you’d assume that easily with the kind of day he had; filled with questions. You let his name slip with a groan as your head falls back. This is… a lot. But when you look back at him, he isn't deterred, his eyes are still searching yours for an answer.

“I have so many questions though—”

“Ask.”

“Lily.” It comes out before you can stop it but you don’t have time for regret.

“Just a friend. You have to trust me if this is going to work.” Calling your non-relationship this is apperantly the default name.

“I do trust you,” Risky considering you just met him, “but you never told me about the hangouts. You guys go out alone.”

“She’s top of the class, it helps to study with her.” Apparently that’s something you’ll have to get used to, him hanging around other girls. No questions come to mind after that, except maybe the most obvious one. That’s bothering both of you.

“Sam—”

“I’ll wait. If you want me to wait for six months, I will.” You tilt your head in confusion, “I like you, a lot, and if my age bothers you then I’ll wait as long as you want. But you will not use it as a reason against us.”

It's probably all you’ve ever wanted your whole life. Being the youngest in your classes, in college, in basically everything you’ve ever participated in has always made you think you’re less than you are. You can’t be successful because you’re too young, it’s okay to fail because you still have years to catch up— it’s insulting and honestly just fucking annoying.

But it’s still not that easy, even if you want to be with Sam people will talk. You don’t look seventeen, but you are, and you’re friends know so, since you don’t have a license. You’ll get the looks and talks you don’t want to even come near but it’s inevitable.

It’s worth it. Sam is worth it.

“Yeah let’s, can we take it slow? Just for a while, so I can understand this before we decide to get into it.” You don’t date for the hell of it but while you’re not naive enough to think you’ll marry Sam, your heart needs time to catch up.

He nods with a small smile, finally. “How slow is slow?”

Great question. How slow is kissing? Probably slow enough, you think as you lean in, your lips inches apart. His eyes do that thing again, eyes, lips, eyes. And you’re praying he’ll finally do something— Sam crashes his lips onto yours. When you didn’t immediately pull away, he tilted his head and deepens the kiss, slipping his tongue out to slide over your bottom lip.

When he doesn’t get the reaction he wants, he bites your bottom lip but it’s so faint you wouldn’t feel it if your whole body wasn’t invested, which it is, so you comply, pushing your lips apart to give him access. His hands run up your thighs and to your waist, pulling you closer slowly so you don’t crash your teeth together. It’s slow but deep and feverish and needy.

When he pulls away for a second and shuts his lips closed you shudder, involuntarily chasing his lips before you feel his hands slip under your thighs and he lifts you onto his lap, then moves so he’s in your place with his back against the headboard.

He doesn’t go back to immediately kissing you, instead pulls back a little further, one hand on your waist, the other coming up to your hair, his eyes taking you in so completely you might as well be naked. “What?”

“You’re gorgeous,” You pout. That’s… sweet. Too sweet. You guys should go back to kissing. So you nod once and try to lean back in, he lets you, indulges you in a kiss. Two, three seconds then he pushes back using the hand that’s holding your head, treading his fingers through your hair. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing, ‘s cute, thanks.” He shakes his head, obviously not buying it. “Just… i don’t know, it’s weird hearing it from a guy.”

“That you’re attractive? Are you joking?” You shrug and try to look around for something to do. Is it normal to have full on conversations when you’re trying to make out? “Beautiful.” He says it with a breath, like it’s consuming him ��Every part of you.” He whispers that part while his eyes run over your figure up and down.

“Okay… so kiss me?” He laughs a little and with your hands on his chest you can feel the vibrations distinctly, making you forget your question which allows a gasp to escape when his lips pull yours in.

You can’t believe you’re kissing Sam. You can’t believe that you’re taller than him in this position. He’s the one pulling you down to get to him. Incredible. Everything about him and this.

He tests the water again before slipping his tongue into your mouth and it causes a more visceral reaction; you pull away suddenly and his eyes instantly snap open. “You okay? Was that too fast?”

No just… weird? Are you supposed to do that for him? Yeah, no way, man. You’re not a prude (kinda), you’ve watched things here and there, a woman has her needs, but this? Kissing? Not the internet’s biggest interest.

“Sam, you know this is like— you’re my first. Ever.” Oh. Okay. So maybe he didn’t know. His face is suggesting he, infact, did not know. “Like I mean, not, maybe—” You’re making it worse.

“You’re making it worse.” He sighs and his head falls back to slam quietly against the headboard. He looks tired, but takes back his words the second he says them regardless. “‘M sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. Just— you should’ve told me. I didn’t know.”

“Well, I thought I’d make it obvious the second the kiss starts, honestly.”

“Wouldn’t have guessed,” he mutters through half-lidded eyes, fingers still playing with your hair. He’s better at not freaking out about your pop-up facts, now. “Was it okay? For your first time?”

You nod quickly, “Yes, the best.” You lean down and press another kiss. It’s unhurried, and just the surface, but still so meaningful it fills your heart beyond belief. “You’re the best— but since we’re on the topic, you know that I’m a virgin too, right?” You add the last part just in case. Just in case.

“Yeah, baby, I know,” He’s probably extra tired if he’s calling you that. He should really stop if he wants you to keep it that way. “Wasn’t gonna do anything tonight, anyways. We’re waiting, right?”

“Do you want to do something tonight?” You’re not sure why you’re asking. You’re not ready. Mentally or physically. He shakes his head anyways and you let out a sigh of relief and practically slump your shoulders. He chuckles and tries to sit up.

“That bad? Then why’d you ask?”

“No not bad, ‘s just that I’m not ready yet.”

“We’re never going to do anything you’re not ready for, you know that. You shouldn’t do anything just ‘cause I want to.” You know that, it’s basically the only staple in your life considering how much of a people-pleaser you used to be back in high school.

“Okay, yeah.” Your smile is wide despite all the highs and damn lows of today, you ended it on Sam’s lap, making out (on Gen’s bed), how the hell are you supposed to be sad about that? Not happening. But you are concerned for Sam’s health so you slide out of his grip and sit next to him instead. He faces you.

“You’re exhausted, Sam. Go to sleep.” It’s not a demand, but he seems to take it as one because he yawns and slips further into the bed. “In here?” You let out and immediately glue your lips shut.

“You want me to leave?” He’s asking but he’s also getting comfortable at the same time. So you shake your head and make a move to get out of the bed when he starts slightly, a wave of guilt washing over him, so clear on his face. “I’ll go, just give me a minute—”

“I’m just getting the lights, Sam.” You feel him sag with relief and you mirror it out of joy. You get the lights and take a moment to collect yourself then get in the bed next to him, slowly tucking yourself under the covers. You try not to touch him and he doesn’t exactly have time to comment because he’s out in a minute.

Jess: Like a cheap whore.

You wish you could text Jess back to shut up and that that isn’t what happened but that’s a lie— it’s exactly how it happened. You left the next morning before Sam woke up, leaving his clothes in a neatly folded pile in his living room. She must’ve checked your location.

You: How’d you know he’s asleep?

You text back as you pass another coffee shop on your way home. It’s only a thirty minute walk, good enough for you to think and collect your thoughts before Sam inevitably calls.

Jess: I didn’t but you confirmed it. On your way?

You: Yes.

Jess: Coffee bitch!! Gen wants matcha.

You shut your phone off after putting your AirPods in. You’ll bring them their coffee and tell them all the details but now you need to think. Collect. Recollect. Organize.

And you will, you are. Because you’re not hiding from Sam, you’re not running away or ignoring him, you need space, like you often do, so you don’t get emotional. That, and waking up next to someone is too intimate for you so maybe a little bit of running.

But you didn’t do it just for him, you wanted to see if you’d be able to do it, be comfortable enough to sleep next to him. And despite the answer being ‘maybe?’, you would do it again.

“Glucose is converted to glycogen, glycogenesis—” Another yawn. The sixth time in maybe just this hour and you pull your phone out to find something a little more entertaining for just a few minutes. Your brain is going to seriously retaliate if you don’t immediately get a break.

Sam: Hey, how are you?

Sam: Classes?

Your breath hitches as you stare at your Lock Screen, the little messages under his name sending a current through your entire body. Despite the constant texting these past weeks it feels different now. You kissed. Yesterday. And you left without saying anything.

His text was sent five minutes ago so you suck it up and text right away.

You: Yes, I’m in class right now. Sorry I didn’t wanna wake you up.

Sam: It’s okay, but you should’ve, wanted to say bye.

Oh, that’s sweet.

Sam: Be careful and text me when you’re done I wanna talk.

You: Okay. I’m done by three.

Nothing bad could possibly come out of this, you’ve already done the biggest part and he told you that he likes you. Straight up just said it and that he wants to make a relationship between you two work. Nothing else bad can come out of that.

Sam: Meet me at the cafe in front of the gate?

He wants to meet up? Now? No way, youre half out of your mind and if someone doesn’t drop you onto a bed at this moment, you will be throwing hands. You barely slept a wink in that bed, no matter how warm and there Sam was next to you, it didn’t calm you down as much as you thought it would. You still got to sleep, just not enough, a few hours considering you kept waking up every hour to check that he’s still asleep and make sure you’re not dreaming.

You: Okay.

The monologue was helpful and very true, but there’s no way you’re rejecting him when you want to talk just as much as he does, if not more.

“—and so it’s back to its normal set point. This is what we call negative feedback mechanism.”

You might need a tutor, though.

“Hey, mum.” Your heart softens hearing her voice blare through the phone. So much background noise, your siblings, but she’s laughing as she asks how you’ve been. “Great, I’m okay. How are you guys? I know I haven’t been checking in lately, ‘s my fault.”

She asks about your grades and how studying is going and you tell her the truth, you’re a little distracted today but other than that everything’s okay, that earns you a lecture, that you cut short when you see Sam approaching your table. You already ordered a redbull for yourself and since you didn’t know what sam wanted you got water.

“Love you so much more.” You smile and shut your phone off as you stand up to greet him and he hugs you, his cologne penetrating everything at this point. Did he always smell this good because God, how? “I’m sorry I’ve just been tired so I got it— do you wanna order?”

He shakes his head and you both sit down opposite to each other as you try and drown your drink. He looks like he wants to say something and you’re not sure anymore whether or not this is ‘nothing’ like you tried to convince yourself.

“How’s school? Do you have classes today?”

“No, no, just a project meet up tonight—” With Lily, probably. He takes his phone out to put down on the table as it rings loudly to show a notification. “But you left, sweetheart. So I wanted to ask you about that.”

“I had class.”

“Your class starts at one, you left way before that.” How’d he know that? “Yesterday, did I make you uncomfortable?” You hate this. Two steps forward, one step back. You kissed, you thought that meant you could do more but you can’t and you have no idea why you lied to yourself.

“No.”

“Then what’s wrong?” You shrug and take another sip. “Yesterday we were tired and it was late so if you did something you regret or if you don’t mean what you said—”

“What? No, I meant it. Why, did you not mean it? You said you’d wait.” It’s moments like these where you regret having the ability to speak. Jumping to conclusions and deciding things for everyone has been your default. You’re a control freak, it’s the least you do.

“You’re the one who’s not talking!” He says, a little loud and exasperated which forced you to lean back in your seat. “You said you want this to work so you have to open up to me.” He’s making it sound like a school project.

“It’s just how I am, I don’t like airing out every single thought and feeling I have.” And then, because if there’s one thing you know how to do it's setting boundaries, “If you don’t like that, Sam, then just go.”

He sighs and shakes his head. “I want to be here but— okay, so, I’ll recap what happened. Before we slept we said we’d try to take it slow, but that you wanted me. I wanted you.” Wanted? “I want to be with you,” he says strictly, “and then I wake up and you’re back to how you were two days ago. Closed off.”

“I’m not closed off, I tell you everything. I told you I had class, and I was tired so I got a redbull.”

“Are you hearing yourself?” He says with a laugh, a little amused and thankfully, less irritated, “you told me you’re tired? I don’t mean that kind of stuff, baby, I wanna know why you left early. I’m not accusing you of anything, I just want to be there for you. You think about things way too hard and they spin out of control, and I can see it, but I just don’t know where it comes from. You need to clue me in.”

He said ‘baby’ again, and this time he isn’t sleepy. Maybe he deserves a little bit of your thoughts. It isn’t like you’re actively keeping him out, it’s just too much for a lot of people.

“Sam, I don’t mean to be closed off but I think a lot, and it’s just, I don’t know, I guess high maintenance for some people. You don’t need to know every single thing.”

“I’m not saying every single thing about your entire life, but maybe just about us for now?” Maybe time stops, maybe it doesn't, maybe you’re hearts behind it, but when you face him again it’s a different expression than before. He’s frowning at you like the answer means the world to him and you can’t help but feel guilty and enamored by how fucking beautiful he actually is. And he likes you? It’s getting harder to accept by the moment.

Contrary to popular belief you are not just a control freak. You’re also an over-thinker with self-sabotaging tendencies that could last you three lifetimes, but you just can’t find it in yourself to do anything to hurt Sam. You just can’t. With those jutted lips and sparkling eyes.

Do his eyes always sparkle like that?

His laugh coerces you out of your daydream and— when did he move his chair closer? “Answer me, then we’ll talk about whatever you want.”

Including his eyes?

“Yes.” You should invest in tape if you’re going to start blurting out your thoughts.

“I wasn’t uncomfortable but I need space sometimes. I get overwhelmed easily and I don’t mean it in a bad way but my mind just organizes things better when I’m alone.” He nods, looks down at your hand on the table and takes it in his, it jolts you and you look up at him. “And— sometimes holding me or just touching me overwhelms me and if I ask you to stop it isn’t because of you.”

“Like now?”

You shake your head quickly, pressing your fingers into his to assure him. “No, not now.”

“Yesterday?” You answer no and he smiles. “So you just needed to think?”

“Yes.”

“And you thought doing all of this was better than just telling me that you needed time to think.” Well, when you put it like that… “Can I kiss you?”

“What?”

“Can I kiss you?” You should probably think about this logically before you answer— who will see you and stuff, but you’re nodding yes and he’s leaning in faster than your mind can comprehend.

It’s short, and when you pull away, you’re still so close, “so you’re not mad?”

“I’ll never be mad if you tell me how you feel or what you need.” Hell of a promise to keep, Winchester.

“Jess, come on, you know me!” The argument is a futile one, and you’re aware of it.

“I know, and that's why I'm so disappointed. You slept at his house? On my girlfriend's bed?” Right, so maybe you left the important details out like you’re make-out session in the middle of the night and both of you decide to take it slow but ultimately are in a relationship. Speaking of, this means exclusive, right? Fuck, you should’ve asked.

“That’s— whatever! I didn’t do anything stupid, don’t worry.” Biggest understatement of the century but you just can’t bring yourself to tell her anything yet. Besides, you have exams soon and that seems like a much more important task to focus on.

“Look, babe, I’m not saying I’m angry, but you promised you’d be careful.”

“I was!”

“No you’re not. You get attached easily, and you love way too fast— Sam can control himself! If you two stop talking tomorrow he wouldn’t feel the same way you would.” It fucking burns more than anything in the world to hear it from Jess. Especially from her. Possibly because she knows you best and it would mean that what she’s saying is true, and you’re not ready to face that.

She’s right, though, and you’ve always known it. But it isn’t like that with Sam— it hasn’t been like that since you came to college. Not that Jess was with you before it but you’ve told her almost everything about you, past and present, so her words come from a place of analyzation. And love.

“I’m different now. And he’s different.”

She shrugs, moving closer, a hand on both your shoulders, “I couldn’t care less about Sam,” lie, “but I will not allow anyone to hurt you. Ever.”

And it shouldn’t be that comforting considering she’s only a twenty one year old woman who’s never had a stable job in her life and hasn’t talked to her parents in two years, but it is. It’s the most comfort you've felt the whole week, and you bring her in for a hug because of it.

For all her advice, she’s wrong about one thing. You’re not all-in with Sam. You’re scared, fucking petrified of what this could lead to, but you’re not in high school anymore, your responsibilities aren’t just ‘study and maybe get a top grade’. In uni you can very easily get kicked off— and outside of school, you have to go back home in a month. Unlike your hopeless romantic fourteen-year-old self, you’re aware of your goals.

And maybe you can’t say it out loud to Jess yet, but you’re proud of yourself for recognizing it within yourself. part six; baby, don’t get it twisted.

title: love notes by alexa cirri

prompt: person a: ‘come on, you know me!’ person b: ‘I know, and that's why I'm so disappointed.’ from @alphabetquest !!

they finally kissed!!!!! Is this the beginning of their relationship?? I’ve had too much angst for now so I’m thinking next chapter they just cuddle the whole time. comment if you wanna be tagged!

tag list:

@angzls @chxrrybomb22 @pinkpantheris @ang3ldool @iloveragdollcats

@oohjana18294 @user-2538484747490203746579403 @wattpaduser200 @s0urw00lf @ashlynyyyyy

@strabarrybat @anu-piyakya97 @tranquilitybasegrunge

#supernatural #AlphabetQuestSubmission #sam winchester #supernatural imagine #sam winchester fanfiction #sam winchester x oc #sam winchester x y/n #sam winchester x reader #remedy #&. sammy #&. mine

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