#like if i could id hug him until my arms disintegrated | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

alfredosauce50 · 3 years

Text

Island Escapade [Ex-con! 2p! America x reader x Denmark] 07

Island Escapade - 07 - She's my collar Wordcount: 2, 877 The reader is referred to as she/her.

"Mathias is missing."

"Save your jokes for dinnertime, Allen. It would've been better to laugh in front of him." You snorted. Without sparing him so little as a glance, you leaned forward to crush a few cloves of garlic under the blade of a knife. He stood at your side with his eyes narrowed into a troubled glare—you could brush me off every other time, just not today.

"I'm not kidding, dollface." He set down the missing man's phone on the countertop in a light clunk. "He's been gone since noon. Dude went awol the second he finished eating. And it's nearly seven."

You lifted your gaze to the device, then to him. It wasn't the first time he did something like this, but now that he mentioned it, his cloud of worry seemed to float right over.

"... Hm. That's weird." Giving your hands a quick wipe, you marched out to the porch overlooking the surrounding beaches. Allen appeared from behind. "You don't think he went to someone else's house, do you? It's getting dark... And the rain's setting in."

"He's not stupid enough to not bring an umbrella, right?" He asked.

One of your eyes narrowed in thought. "Doubt it." Redirecting your line of vision to a spot on the fencing, your words manifested into reality when you saw that your umbrella was untouched. Immediately, you frowned. "What on Earth could he be up to?" The other shrugged with his lips pursed together.

"Maybe he's trying to get your attention by making you worry."

You cracked your neck. "Well, he always was one for theatrics. He'll probably come back soaking head to toe to be dramatic."

You couldn't put it past him to do something like that. Again.

"Ouch." Allen chuckled, following you back inside. "You do this every time he runs off?"

"Yeah, because I'm usually right." Mathias was either straightforward and demanding or didn't say anything at all. Like being dramatic.

There was no compromise whatsoever, but you doubted he knew what the word meant. The man had the communication skills of an egg. "But if he proves me wrong, we have something to be scared of."

Making your way back to the kitchen, you scraped up the chopped-up vegetables and dropped them into a frypan for a satisfying sizzle. Despite your silence, the worry was visibly setting in your downcast eyes. Even he could see it, but he never brought it up until it was time to eat—the last and ultimate test.

If he was late he might as well have been dead.

He never missed dinner or any meal for that matter. And yet, there you sat, halfway through your stirfry. Allen already finished his, now watching you with his cheek resting on his hand. "... You good?"

His brows were slightly furrowed.

You kept your head down to prod around your plate absentmindedly.

"Yeah... He’ll turn up."

As the minutes droned by without him, the plate next to yours grew colder and colder. What was once hot and piping had cooled off and hardened. The generous serving of what you made—double of what you had—was no longer as appetizing as it used to be.

"Listen. He's not showing up."

He watched you glance up slowly. What he blurted was disheartening, but he couldn't take how depressed you looked.

"... You're wrong. He always shows up." You murmured faintly, unable to return his steely gaze. As you continued, your trust in your own words completely disintegrated.

"It doesn't matter how late it is."

Your stubbornness was just a front. Allen saw right through it. Digging his hands through his dark maroon hair, creases formed between his eyes as he hesitated to continue. But he had to do what had to be done. "Sorry, it had to be me, doll."

He raised an index to point at himself. "Look me in the eye and tell me he's gonna show up." You didn't budge. "That's what I thought. And what did you say his bedtime was? Nine. It's nearly eight."

A brief silence fell as you both shared the same thought.

Mathias was like a kid.

Allen felt worse to know you used to date him. Even now, he could see you worrying yourself to death, but you made no effort to admit it.

"Look, if you’re scared, then you’re scared. But he’s a hardy guy, ain’t he? If I can fit into his clothes, then he’s got a good chance of surviving without eating his veggies for the night."

There it was—the glimmer of hope in your eyes as you lit up to what he said. It was exactly what you needed to hear. The comfort you couldn't bring yourself to ask for. After all, Mathias's absence impacted the atmosphere more than you and Allen cared to confess.

But for you, it hurt more than you could fathom.

A few hours later, there was still no sign of him appearing. You were patient, however, and continued to sit in the living room. But desperate was the better word as you fixated on the door. Where was he? Was he okay? The muffled sound of a toothbrush stopped, which was followed by the hum of the faucet turning on.

Out walked Allen in his pyjamas. His underwear. You had long given up on telling Mathias to not do it. And you were too exhausted for Allen's antics. "You should get some sleep, doll. We'll sort this out tomorrow." The couch dipped to your right. "Or do I gotta sit here all night too?"

You bit your lip for a deep frown.

"No, you go to sleep. I'm not letting you do this because my stupid ex can't look after himself." A sigh fell from your lips. "You're not responsible for anything, and I wouldn't be able to sleep, anyway."

He rose a brow. "Okay, fine. But who said you had to be responsible?"

"Me."

Allen clicked his tongue. "I know you care about him, but I have to be frank." He turned to you with a softened gaze. "There's nothing you can do but wait til' morning. We can look for him when we can actually see."

Why did he have to put it like he was already dead?

You practically launched yourself into his arms, much to his surprise. Tightening your coils around him, it didn't take long for you to feel his strong arms around you. He wasn't used to being appreciated, but damn, did it feel good. "Aw, haw haw. Gimme some. Let's hug it out."

"If he comes back alive, I'm gonna kill him." Your voice was no higher than a whisper to stop it from cracking. When you realized what you were doing, bile rose in your throat.

"You can kill him all you want when he gets back, and he will." Allen pet your hair softly. Given the height difference, he could rest his chin on the top of your head. "Don’t cry over that dumbass. He doesn’t deserve it."

"But you don’t understand—" Pulling away to rub away some stray tears, the effort ended up in vain as more streamed down your face. "—we were still fighting today."

His eyes drooped in sympathy as you finally spilled. "Why did he have to fucking disappear when I was already ignoring him? He was trying to talk to me for days but I never even looked at him...!"

You sucked in a sharp breath to hold back a sob, then to replace it with a laugh. "About how good his cereal was, or how bad the weather was—or, or a funny video or something just as stupid."

All Allen could do was dab tissues over your face, so he huffed out a soft sigh. Hearing it only made bottling everything in harder. And it showed in the tremble that seized your body.

"C’mon... Don’t be like that." He pulled you in again, unable to bear the sight. Hearing it was bad enough.

God, were you a mess.

He’d never say it out loud, but it turned him on more than anything. Hugging you tighter as the warmth flurried more in his chest, he felt something wet spread over his tank. You were so vulnerable, and to be here when you needed someone—he never felt closer to you than now.

"I'll be however I wanna be. This is just how it's always been with him." You admitted bitterly through a glare. "He pulls something, but I'm the one who ends up feeling bad. I can’t win arguments! And you have no idea how many times it’s happened."

Never had he witnessed such raw honesty and ugly emotions from you. Allen just never imagined Mathias to be the cause of it. But then again, you had a history with him he was never privy to.

For just a moment, he felt like crying too.

"You gotta stop beating yourself up. Shit happens. But I promise he'll show up. I got a feeling we aren't getting rid of him this easily."

You sniffed. "You really think so?"

"I know so."

The next morning, you were awakened by the buzz of your phone. Rummaging under your pillow to find the source of those obnoxious vibrations, you pulled out the device to find yourself staring at the line, "No caller ID" across your screen. With little hesitation, you answered it. Inside, you prayed and prayed it was who you thought it was.

"... Hello?"

"(F/N)! It's me!" The voice piped. "Gah, thank god you picked up!"

Your heart soared as you sprung up.

"Mathias?! Is that you?"

"Who else could it be, kæreste? Of course, it's me! I just wanted to let you know I'm okay! A little lost, but okay!" He spoke breathlessly. Now, the Danish pet name and unnecessary amount of shouting? You couldn't mistake it for anyone else.

Immediately, a huge wave of relief washed over you. But it was short-lived.

The fear burned away into a livid kind of fury.

"What the fuck, Mat? I was worried to death!" You screamed. You could practically imagine him holding the phone away while cringing at the volume. But it was merely a taste of his own medicine.

He laughed. "Sorry, sorry. It's a long story, but I promise to tell you everything."

"Sorry? I thought you died!" A few knocks sounded on your door. Sliding yourself off the bed, you unlocked it without a second thought. In walked a disgruntled Allen with his face scrunched up.

He was never a morning person, but today was a special occasion.

"I'm really sorry! I didn't mean to worry you, I swear!"

You scowled, putting him on speaker. "Then you better start talking."

A weight settled on your head—your companion decided it to be a perfect resting place for the meantime while he listened in. He then wrapped himself around you. As tired as he was, he still managed a wide, floaty smile. So he was right, wasn't he? Rather than crying over the dumb Dane, you were about to give him the lecturing of a lifetime.

So rather than telling Allen off, you let him do as he pleased. You even held onto his arm that found its place on your waist.

"Uhh, so... I'm kinda stranded."

You expected him to say, on a random island on the Spanish archipelago. Maybe he had gone out for a swim to sulk by his lonesome after you forgave Allen. It was understandable, considering he was genuinely convinced he was trying something. And because he broke safety protocols, he managed to get swept away without anyone realizing it. How he didn't drown was beyond you.

Little did you know, he took swept up to a whole other level.

"Well, spit it out! The faster you tell us where you are, the easier it'll be for you, me, and the coast guard."

Mathias 'uhhed' again.

"... Erm... I think I'm in New York?"

New York.

The Big Apple.

It was where Allen was supposed to be—his home. How did they end up switching places?

If you could, you would have gone on and on about how impossible he was. Even Allen was shocked at how red you were as you shrieked into the speaker. Unfortunately, the displaced man was borrowing a phone from a random passerby on the street, so he had to hang up. Before he did, you relayed to him that you were breaking up with him twice out of spite. It didn't really make sense, but it incited a huge reaction from Mathias nonetheless.

Wha~at! But you already broke up with me! You can't break up with me again! He'd pleaded. But he was wrong. Anything he humored you on, you could use against him. And that included made-up dating culture. He deserved that, at least.

It wasn't just the random location he wound up in that troubled you, even if he was across the North Atlantic Ocean. It was how he ended up there in the first place. Apparently, he decided to do some vigilante work and sneak onto the ferry that stole the turtle eggs. But he wasn't Batman.

He was Mathias.

So he was stranded in a foreign country with no money. And like Allen said, it was strangely hard to get rid of him. Before the call ended, you told him to go to the Spanish consulate for help. He didn't even realize he could do that. So Allen was right. How he wasn't dead was beyond you! Fucking around with animal smugglers, then actually considering sleeping outside on the streets of New York?

He'd be killed faster than he could say Ferrari.

The next day around noon, Mathias glided in on a yacht accompanied by Antonio. Inhaling the fresh salt of the Mediterranean waters, he giddily stepped down onto the pier. How he missed this smell. Before he could get far, the rapid thudding of your footsteps came charging at him at unprecedented speed.

"Mat!"

There were bags under his eyes, but the sight of you running at him was the greatest injection of energy he could ever ask for. "(F/N)!" Outstretching his arms just in time to catch you, he stumbled back from the sheer force of the collision. "Hey! Did you miss me?"

"Fuck you...! I always thought you were stupid, but not that stupid!" You exasperated in the hug. Mathias responded by holding you tighter and nuzzling into your neck. He could listen to you scold him forever, but the opportunity to breathe you in was rarer than a blue moon. "What did you think you could accomplish, huh? You’re not special! We were gonna call the cops, you idiot! You weren’t supposed to trespass and try and save the day!"

He sighed contentedly. "Mm, I’m sorry. I only ever meant to go in for a quick look. But I had to hide when people came. So I hid for like..." His voice was low with huskiness, a sure fire sign he was fatigued. "Half a day. In an empty crate. I stole one of the labels and shipped myself out so they wouldn’t find me."

Pulling away with a huff, you reached up to cup his cheeks. There was untold fondness in how you held him, even if your words didn’t reflect it. "Just shut up and take nap. I’ve had enough of your idiocy." You flickered your sad eyes over his roughed up features. There were more bruises than you could bear, and it broke your heart to see them.

Mathias picked up rather quickly for once, so he gave both your hands a reassuring squeeze. Then, he gleamed. "Don’t worry! I heal super fast! And even faster if you kiss it better," The blonde winked.

If it weren’t for the bruises, you would have pushed his face away. "I would have given you a punch, but it looks like you were punished enough."

He began to walk with you back to your house.

"Oh? So are you saying you’re not mad at me anymore?" He chimed hopefully.

You shot him a glare. "Far from it. I was gonna have your ass on the couch, but I’ll be nice since you spent a night in a box." Mathias’s smile widened, but you were pleased to say he was jumping the gun. "You can sleep in my bed. But I won’t be using it."

He pouted.

"You’d rather sleep on the couch than with me?"

"No, I’d rather sleep in a different room than you." Grinning at that, you ascended the small flight of stairs to your front porch. Allen just walked outside to greet you both. Speak of the devil. "I’ll be crashing this guy’s room."

"Wait, you are?" The said guy blinked.

Mathias’s jaw dropped. You’ve never seen him this horrified in his life. "What? No way! You—you can’t!"

You hummed delightfully. "My house, my rules. Don’t like them, you’re free to leave. You have a home to go back to, you know?"

"I think I’ll stay." His cheeks blew up in discontent.

Allen shared your mischievous grin. "Heh. It must suck being a loser all the time. But I can’t really say anything when I can’t relate." He shrugged.

"Hey! I’m not!"

#hetaliafanfic #hetalia fanfiction #hetalia x reader #hetalia fanfic #aph denmark #denmark x reader #2p america #2p! america #2p!americaxreader #2p america x reader #dark #dark art #island escapade #alfredosauce50 #axis powers hetalia #hetalia world series #axis powers ヘタリア

22 notes · View notes

jademakean · 3 years

Text

Aftermath

Timothée Chalamet x Reader

𝑾𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔: 𝑫𝒓𝒖𝒈 𝒂𝒅𝒅𝒊𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏.

｡･:*:･ﾟ

Your whole body was shaking from exhaustion, with a light layer of cold sweat covering it.

Your mind agitated as you waited for him to open the door after your rushed knocks.

Once he did his relaxed face turned one of concern "Y/n, are you okay?"

"Yes, I-I just need some more of t-" your stuttering was cut short "y/n I can't give you any more heroin and you know it."

Your face drained "B-but you have it all the time." "I know but I quit a while ago, and you, you're addicted and it's really messing with you. Take a look at yourself, you're pale, skinny shaking- "

"You did this to me!" His speech was cut off and his expression went blank "you gave me that needle while I was at my lowest point in life and said everything was gonna be alright! It's your fault!"

Your voice was now cracking and trembling with a tear-stained face.

Your eyes looked as if you had stayed hours in a pool, red and watery.

His whole body was filled with guilt in an instant, keeping his eyes down

"Please-please don't do this to me." He couldn't give in

"Timmy" Your wavering voice made him rushingly but softly grab your wrist and drag you into his room.

You felt hope shine through you as you believed that he was going to give you some. But all hope was lost once you realized he was picking up his own clothes and leading you to the washroom.

"Look Y/n you have always been the one to make sure I wasn't doing anything stupid, you made sure I ate every day and the I was warm and mentally & physically okay. You have always been the voice of reason. You know what happens if you take too much." He took a deep breath

"Do you want that to happen to you?" Those words alone made you shed tears "No." Your whimper made him instantly embrace you with a warm hug.

"Look, I don't know how hard your need for heroin is, but I can get a close idea from the state you're in, and I hate to see you like this. But I'm going to help you, you can move in with me for a couple of months until you're all cleared up. Do you want that." He asked gently

You nod into his chest as he runs his hand over your silky hair.

•••

You were now in the bath and he was rinsing the lavender conditioner smoothing your hair.

Your knees were to your chest, covering it from your dear friend, though you didn't mind if he did see.

It was quiet, and all that was heard was the moving bathwater and droplets. Candle lights we're used since the intense chandelier light made your eyes burn. But it was incredibly calming, and the illumination made your skin golden, the same skin that was once pale was now flush from the warm pool that surrounded you.

"I'm sorry." You looked at the man who had ceased the silence. Only to find him looking at your scar covered arms. You could see all the places the substance was injected in, due to the redness and veins displayed on it.

"I'm so sorry." He was now sitting back with his hands covering his face "It's all my fault." He sobbed

You quickly got out of the bath, not caring if he'd see your body "Hey, don't say that." You crawled over due to your lack of energy, setting your hands on his thighs, he was had one knee propped up so he rested his elbow on it, though his other leg was down.

"But it is like you said before, I knew your life was fucked at the time and I just added one more problem to it, just because I wanted you to feel free with me." he cried

You took his hands from his beautiful face and held them gently. His eyes were slightly red from the crying and he had a look of guilt covering them.

"Hey I was just really fucked, I still am but ." you tried to lighten the mood but continued "Look, you were just trying to let me loosen up, had no idea id turn out like this when you guys turned out fine. You had good intentions and still do." A small comforting smile was brushed upon you lips

And once he noticed it he grabbed your body into a desperate embrace

"I'm so fucking sorry, I never meant to hurt you." He cried into your neck

"I know, hun." You ran a hand through his back

"I love you." He mumbled

You were going to reply, but before you could he kept going "I mean I fucking love you, I want to be with you and you with me, and I- and I want to protect you so nothing bad ever happens to you again I love you so, so fucking much Y/n." he said hugging you tighter

You were a little shocked at first, not expecting this happening anytime soon.

"I love you, Timmy."

Though he was extremely relieved to hear those words come from you and all he wanted to do was kiss you till you both couldn't breathe longer, but he tried to just settle for a kiss on the neck.

He couldn't help himself and continued all the way up to your lips, kissing them passionately and aggressively as if you were going to disintegrate.

After what seemed like seconds but was actually minutes you both pulled away breathing heavily.

"You will get through this and I'll make sure of it."

#timothee chamalet #timothee fanfic #timothee imagine #timothee angst #timothee fluff #timothee x y/n #timothee x you #timothee x reader #timothee chalamet x reader #timothee chalamet

67 notes · View notes

thedefenderoftheearth · 3 years

Text

slide

summary: Rose and TenToo start their journey together and it isn't always perfect but they're good together.

rating: T

word count: 2200

Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30290310

On Day One, he knows the TARDIS is leaving before Rose does. She’s entirely captivated by this kiss, and he wants to be too (and is…mostly), but it’s his TARDIS, and his mind is big enough to think of both things at once–the love of his life re-entering it and the companion he’s not sure he can live without fading from it. He hates the thought but knows it’s true. He’s lived without Rose, knows he can do it…but he’s not sure if he can live without his ship.

When Rose breaks the kiss with a gasp and bolts toward his disappearing girl, he’s certain that he can’t. He takes the few strides to Rose, interlaces his fingers with hers because it’s the only thing he’s sure it’s okay to do. When they turn to look at each other, he wonders what he’ll be sure of tomorrow.

On Day Two, he wakes to a soft whirring sound--an electric toothbrush, he realizes. Rose is awake and coming out of the en suite. He doesn't know what to do with himself, so he flings the covers aside and hops out of the bed to meet her.

"Oh," she says, and she won't meet his eyes. "Um. Hi. You're awake."

"Yes," he confirms. "And you have a bit of toothpaste just...there." Without thinking and before she can stop him, he licks the pad of his thumb and swipes the corner of her mouth.

"Um. Thanks," she says, and she still won't look at him properly. "Um...I thought...I thought I'd pick up your suit from dry-cleaning. And then we could go shopping, get you some things. I won't be long." She hurries from the room with her head down, not even pausing to wait for an answer.

He's puzzled, but when he's certain she's gone, he sucks his thumb. He can't taste every component of the toothpaste, can't determine the exact structure of the methylcellulose like he used to. What he can taste is Rose, and that, he thinks, could merit a full day's worth of analysis.

It isn't until he goes into the bathroom to relieve himself that he realizes why Rose did her best not to see him.

He wonders if this is a problem human males have every morning.

If so, he wonders how he could possibly bear this every morning--this heat that's spreading across his face, down his neck, and to his shoulders that makes him feel like he could disintegrate on the spot and like he wouldn't mind if he did, because at least he wouldn't have to face Rose again.

On Day Three, she catches him in the kitchen with two fingers in a jar of raspberry jam. He freezes, smiles sheepishly, grows nervous when she doesn't say anything.

"You know," she finally says, taking the jar from him and replacing his fingers with her own, "this is an awful habit to get yourself into." Her tongue darts out to clean the messy glob on her fingers.

"Dreadful," he agrees, when he can finally speak. "Terribly rude." He takes the jar back to help himself to more jam.

They pass the jar between them a few times before she stops and places it on the counter.

Sticky fingers weave through his perfectly tousled hair as she pulls his mouth to her and he wants to whine about it, but his brain shorts out as she swipes her tongue along his bottom lip and oh--all right then.

On Day Nine, they're okay. They've fallen into a safe routine: she cooks breakfast and he cleans the dishes; they share the bathroom (and it's not long before they decide it isn't big enough for the two of them); they reach together for two Torchwood IDs hanging near the door; she drives and he changes the radio fifteen times before they arrive.

Neither of them takes any risks with the other, but it's good. They're good together.

On Day Twenty-Eight, he cooks breakfast and doesn't burn the toast. It earns him a proud hug from Rose. He thinks back to a day when a shop girl from the Powell Estate pronounces a word correctly and elicits the same response from him. He wonders what happened to that girl and marvels at the woman before him who has all of herself pressed up against all of him.

On Day Forty-One, he goes on his third date with Rose. He's not sure why she keeps referring to it that way but she does and has more than once--to her mum on the phone and even to Jake at Torchwood.

He doesn't understand why she emerges from the en suite in a dress he's never seen before and strappy heels that couldn't possibly be designed for comfort (and definitely not for running) or why she smells flowery and certainly good but not quite like herself.

When they return to the flat, he doesn't understand her frustrated sounds when he kisses her, when he tries to slow their snogging back down to just that, just like always, just like normal. She finally relents and succumbs to his pace. When they're both breathless, she snuggles close to him...until she can't anymore.

He's utterly baffled when he's suddenly asked to sleep on the couch, but for the first time since he came to live with Rose--the first time in his existence--he does.

On Day Fifty, he understands why they call it "getting lucky." His brain is shrouded in a blissful haze, yet singularly focused on one thing: he has just had sex with Rose Tyler. He's done the deed, gotten busy, mattress mamboed, knocked boots--he doesn't have boots; maybe he should get some--and he feels a little bit like whooping...but his bones are liquid and he's melting into the soft down of the bed. His hair is in a state of permanent shock, his eyelids droop half-mast, and his mouth is set in a goofy sort of half-grin that doesn't seem to want to fade, but he doesn't mind. He fights to keep his eyes open just to keep looking down at an equally happy Rose falling asleep with one arm across his chest, her hand above his single heart, and her legs tangled with his.

On Day Seventy-Seven, they spend the entire day in bed. He moans loudly.

She tells him through a stuffed-up nose to "shu' ub."

"'Shut up'? Really? These could be my last words, Rose Tyler. I'm going to die!"

"No, you're not."

"Yes, I am."

"It's just a cold."

"Is not. It's swine flu, bird flu, SARS--No." He gasps. "The Plague!"

"It's not the Plague. They didn't even have that here."He whines and moans and groans and "But Roooooose"s, and even though she's miserable herself, she brings him soup, blows on it when it's too hot, and patiently cleans him up when he sneezes in her face and half the bowl goes down his front.

On Day One-Hundred Twelve, they're not okay. Neither of them knows how they got to this point, but hurtful things are being flung carelessly to the air between them. Things like maybe if he came back, she'd leave with him--back to her own universe, back home. Things like maybe if the wanker did come back, he'd just steal his TARDIS, and he could be the one stuck on this stupid planet in this stupid world.

He pulls at the doorknob, tries to flee with some dignity, but the jamb sticks. He twists and pulls and jiggles the lock and finally it breaks free. Tears prickle in his eyes, and he wants to know why this stupid body has his tear ducts hardwired to his frustration. It's a dumb design; he doesn't feel like crying, he feels like running.

He winces when he hears the door slam behind him--he didn't really mean that--but it's done. He can't take it back. He runs.

On Day One-Hundred Fourteen, he runs home. She's ready for him when he walks in, and he isn't expecting that. He's expecting to at least be able to change out of the clothes he left in, the ones that are soaked through and clinging to his cold skin. Maybe even a shave and a steaming cup of tea. He doesn't get those things; they're going to have it out right now.

She unfurls herself from the blankets, rises from the couch with an un-drunk, already-cold mug of tea in her hand and strides toward him. They're toe-to-toe before he can find his voice.

"Still mad?"

She leans in close and he's nervous. "Yes," she says against his temple. "Definitely," against his jaw.

He shivers, swallows thickly, and thinks--knows--they should solve this with words, but when she pulls back to look at him like that, he thinks the words can wait.

They're both sorry, and that's enough for now.

They're a mess of tangled limbs and warm breath as they fall to the bed. His wet clothes are left on the carpet and oh, she's not going to like that later. He wonders how he has room for that thought when he's got a half-naked Rose Tyler in his arms, then he knows: he never wants to make her mad at him again.

Right now, he decides, he's going to make her very, very happy with him.

On Day One-Hundred Fifty, he thinks Rose might be pregnant. He wants to believe it's his superior Time Lord brain counting thirty days to the millisecond. He knows it's his human brain and his human something else.

He's not sure if she thinks that--that there might soon be three heartbeats between them again--but he thinks he's scared, delighted, anxious, proud, reckless, loving, loved, amazed.

He wonders if it's a human trick, to feel all these things at once and not explode into light. If so, it's better than any trick any Time Lord ever had.

On Day One-Hundred Fifty-Two, he finds out he's wrong when she throws a pillow at him and demands toffee and a backrub.

He's not sure why he isn't relieved, or of the reasons he should be.

On Day Two-Hundred Two, he drops a ring--the ring--down the garbage disposal and panics. He stares down the dark void of the drain in horror.

Neither of them are ready for the question to be asked, but that ring....It's The Ring, and he's not going to find a replacement. When his own hand fails him (as does chewing-gum-on-a-wire and the vacuum hose with a bit of nylon over the top) he admits defeat and calls a plumber.

When Rose asks what happened, he has to tell her he finally finished that sonic prototype, and it was rather less successful than one might have hoped--wellll, by that he means it was a complete failure.

She rolls her eyes and asks him what's for supper.

On Day Three-Hundred Ninety-Eight, he thinks they are ready, but she comes home with two zeppelin tickets.

"Fancy a trip?"

"Yes!" he exclaims too loudly. He's done so well so far. He's only had a few freak-outs--no, they weren't freak-outs. Slips, lapses, tiny episodes, he thinks. But oh, would he love to travel. He doesn't have the universe at his fingertips anymore, but this world is still different, still has a lot to offer. Maybe the Sphinx still has a nose because he wasn't there to meddle, and maybe the sand feels different under his feet there because the silicon dioxide content isn't the same in this universe. Maybe the Great Wall of China wasn't built, but there's one in Mexico, and maybe the view is still spectacular. Maybe the best chips on the planet aren't at their old haunt at the hole-in-the-wall on Baker and Twenty-Fourth. Maybe they're across the globe in Sydney, and maybe they can find them.

"Yes," he says quieter, and then, "Where?"

"Anywhere."

"Okay."

And they go.

On Day Four-Hundred Twelve, they're running for their lives from a hunter-gatherer group in the Amazon that he's managed to insult.

They run, and the humidity gives them an endless supply of sweat. Huge droplets pool from every pore making their hair stick close to their scalps and their clothes stick to their skin as though they'd just emerged from a swimming hole fully-clothed and a muddy one at that, with the way the forest wants to cling to them and never let go.

He knows it's just something in the way this adrenal-cortical system works that makes him think that maybe they're really going to die this time, something about these rubbish--wonderful--human hormones, but he says the words anyway.

"Will you marry me?"

"What?" she says between tight gasps for air.

"Marry me.”

"Her answer doesn't come immediately. He doesn't know if she's thinking or trying to find the air for the words or both, but he's dying every second.

"Okay," she says, then looks over her shoulder to the group gaining on them. "Can it wait?"

"Yes!" he exclaims. He hollers an indecipherable word, grabs her hand, and they run faster.

#ficandchips #yeah this is just me rebuilding my blog shhhh #i like never reread things i've written past a certain point #for fear of the cringe #but there is not much cringe here #and some phrases i still like #so #boop doop

23 notes · View notes

bubmyg · 5 years

Note

hi Hannah :)) May I request a drabble with college guk about how he & oc would make up after an argument? Maybe some angst w some fluff at the end hehe. If you choose this thank you! I love your blog & writing v much. 💞

genre/warnings: college!au, fluff, angst if you squint and do a handstand, goes along w my other college bf drabbles (linked on my masterlist)

word count: 1,028

summary: jeongguk doesn’t know how to handle arguments let alone proper apologies or it’s supposed to be cold and you’ve left your favorite hoodie at his apartment.

Jeongguk’s mindless scrolling through the same three applications was disrupted by a notification. His heart jumped into his throat at the possibility and then plummeted back into the pit of his stomach when it wasn’t you but instead his attendance grade in his eight am that he’d skipped. He tapped it just to roll his eyes at the zero of three possible points before navigating back for his text messages.

Your thread was still open, your response blinking at him. A love you to his I love you, your message free of any emoticons when his included the two tiny pink hearts. He’d sent the same character again except with a question mark after it, seeking out a smile on your face that he couldn’t see. Maybe two of the hearts from you, just to hint at the possibility of everything being okay soon.

You’d opened it and not responded.

Mindless tears watered at the edges of Jeongguk’s eyes and he switched off his messages only to be met with your giggling features on his home screen. Crinkles framed his eyes and a single tear lipped over them, wrist smearing the droplet across his cheek as he shook his head, tapping on a random application to calm to injured patter of his heart against the depths of his stomach.

The random brought him to the weather, soft clouds floating behind a pale blue while the temperature sat prominently above center of the screen. He glanced at it once, half paying attention, muttering something about colder than normal under his breath before taking to something else.

An iMessage game notification from Taehyung only harbored his attention for him to miss fire a pool shot before he was falling face first into his bed with a groan.

Jeongguk’s cheek shifted, warmth pressing into the plush as another sigh tried to calm his erratic heartbeat again. He focused on the pattern in his ears rather than overthinking a string of four text messages and the last angry spite you’d left him with in person.

Counting dull beats turned to observing the contents of his room, not ridiculously messy but not clean like he usually kept it. It wasn’t the opened bag of chips on his desk or the mismatched flip flop slides but the mop of black fabric hanging off his closet doorknob.

He was up with the fabric clutched in white knuckles before he could register the flecked stars behind his vision from jerking up so quickly but he powered through to grab his keys from the kitchen, taking the stairs of their building two at a time and the slabs of concrete sidewalk the same ratio until he was situated in his car with the hoodie draped over his lap.

He mentally prepared himself for the parking ticket he’d receive from the sideways hang of his trunk into a metered spot outside your building but he couldn’t bring himself to care, just like your schedule was in the back of his mind as he trailed someone in on the heels of their student ID, taking the back staircase two and a half at a time and nearly tripping twice.

Two knocks into your door and Jeongguk stepped back, finally allowing himself to heave in a breath as he heard shuffling from within, your voice as low and miserable as his as you uttered out a coming behind groaning metal in the lock. The door swinging open revealed your confusion first and your sadness second, meeting his gaze with furrowed eyebrows before your shoulders slumped and you sighed.

“Were you getting ready to leave for class?” He rushed.

Your gaze faltered on the mismatched slides he’d stumbled on to bare feet, shrugging. “Yeah, here in a second, probably.”

“It’s colder than normal,” Jeongguk thrust the fabric toward you, now rumpled from the harsh grip of his palms, “...and y-you forgot this at my place and I know it’s your favorite one so I thought I’d try to bring it to you before you left for class even though I know you said we should probably take a little bit of time apart and I figured a couple days was a little bit of time so it’d be okay and i-it’s cold, baby, so—”

He trailed off, speech unintelligible when your fingers brushed his, stretching the fabric out in front of you for a second before gradually drawing it in to hug against your chest. Your gaze softened from the floor, trailing up to meet his wide and uncertain and sheepish doe eyes.

Your teeth stretched into a single syllable, humorless laugh before it disintegrated into tears, soft sobs rolling your shoulders as you shuffled into Jeongguk’s torso.

He faltered in wrapping his arms around you, frozen at your proximity and your tears and your seek of comfort in him. The embrace was gradual even when it occurred, one arm around your waist, then a hand pressing between your shoulder blades before they both finally squeezed, hand coming up to cradle your head between the planes of his chest.

“Shh,” Jeongguk soothed against the top of your head, nosing down until his lips could press to your ear, “I love you.”

You nodded, tears stained into his t-shirt, “I love you.”

His hands never left your skin in route to cup your cheeks, prying your face from his chest to press his forehead to yours. “With a heart emoji?” Jeongguk trilled hopefully, another tear lipping off his smile and he didn’t try to wipe it away this time.

You cleared it for him, cusp of your thumb skimming underneath his eyelid as you matched his tender smile, “With two, Guk.”

It was a content silence of healing each other before he hummed, “You’ve got a class to get to.”

“Was going to skip anyway,” Your eyes diverted, neck twitching as if you were going to look behind you, “...do you want to come in? Talk about things...”

Jeongguk’s lips met your cheek at the center of the stream of tears, lingering long enough to disrupt the path before he pulled away to brush your noses together.

“Lead the way, baby girl.”

#bts reactions #bts scenarios #bts imagines #bts fluff #bts imagine #jungkook scenario #jungkook scenarios #jungkook imagine #jungkook imagines #jeon jungkook scenario #jeon jungkook imagine #bts x reader #jungkook x reader #jungkook fluff #REQUEST 1 OF 5 DONE #Anonymous

1K notes · View notes

fanfic-from-a-67-impala · 6 years

Text

Bad Terms (Part One)

Characters: middle sister!Reader, Dean, Sam, a medical examiner, a waitress

Word Count: 3602

Summary: Requested by anonymous: Can you please do a oneshot where You and brother dean are constantly at each other’s throats till he/or you get caught by a djin and get saved by the others and like you and Dean hug for the first time in over a year?

Warnings: estranged sibling angst, Lawrence house fire angst, reader likes girls (which isn't really a warning), cliffhanger

A/N: I don’t think I’m supposed to say this, but this is my favorite request so far. Part one of two for this request.

You were always scared of the dark.

It’s why the why the soft flickering glow from the crack under your door, for the last few peaceful moments of your life, comforted you. There, in your bedroom – the one up the stairs, the first door on the left, right next to Sam’s, right across the hall from Dean’s – your small, two-year-old hands inched your blanket down so you could peek out from behind it.

When you caught a whiff of smoke, though, a tingle of fear settled into the pit of your stomach.

“Mommy!” you yell.

Laying still, sweat forming on your forehead, you waited for her to burst through the door, as she had so many times before when you’d had a nightmare or heard a strange noise. But she doesn’t come.

Instead, you heard a scream. You heard crashing, bounding footfalls. Then, the roaring and crackling of a fire. Your dad shouting.

You didn’t move, didn’t even breathe, until your door creaked open. Your eyes, trained on where your mom should be, instead darted down to where your big brother, Dean, waited with the baby Sam in his arms.

“Dad says we have to go, (Y/N),” he shouted over the fire. “Come on. We have to go.”

You slid out from under your covers and toddled over to where he stood. You left your room, standing back to memorize its place up the stairs, first door on the left, before following him down the steps and out the front door, but not before catching a terrifying glimpse of the fire swallowing Sam’s room.

Your thirty-three-year-old self stands in a blazer and a button-down, surrounded by chatter and indistinct police radio, when you spot the tall man in a suit across the wall of metal slabs, flashing a badge to the medical examiner. And, for some reason, that night – the night of the fire – consumes your mind.

His eyes flicker over your head, then snap back to you, questioning.

It can’t be him, you think. He’s too tall, too grown-up, his eyes have seen too much.

His lips form your name, though, as he crosses the buzzing room separating you. It’s not until you’ve pulled him down into your arms (you have to pull him down this time), not until the chatter, the corpses, everything has disappeared, that you allow yourself to believe it’s him.

“Sammy,” you whisper.

He embraces you tightly, so tightly you can feel his heartbeat against yours. It feels familiar but all kinds of different at the same time.

After not nearly long enough, you pull away. “Ah, let me look at you!”

His eyes are still wide with shock, but he lets you hold his hands out to the side and step back to examine him.

You push aside the sharp twinge in your chest and instead let relief flood your heart with the knowledge that he’s alive.

He glances down, a light blush rising to his cheeks.

“You grew out your hair,” you tease, twirling the strands in your fingers. “You look good, Sam.”

His face softens. “Thanks, (Y/N). You’re looking good, too. What’s it been – like, thirteen years?”

“Closer to fourteen, yeah,” you agree. “Not since–”

“Stanford.”

“You’re right. It’s been–” you clear your throat after your voice breaks– “it’s been a while.”

“I don’t really know where to start,” he admits. “We didn’t… we didn’t even know if you were alive.”

You nod, ducking your head in apology. “I guess a low profile’s one of the perks of, you know, not saving the world everyday.”

“You heard about that, huh?” he mutters.

“A lot of people have,” you say. “Makes it easier to keep tabs on you.”

“That right?”

The figure behind Sam creeps into focus. He makes the same confident strides he’s always made toward you before coming to an abrupt stop next to his brother.

“No, please, go on,” he remarks. “Don’t let me interrupt you.”

“Dean,” Sam warns.

“Sammy, stay out of this one.”

You scoff, crossing your arms over your chest. “Actually, Sam, don’t bother. You two obviously have things covered here. I’m moving on.”

“Deserting your family again,” Dean says. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Consider it an act of mercy. I'll even leave that pretty face of yours intact this time,” you add.

He clenches his jaw as you imagine he recalls your last encounter. In fact, you can't remember the last time the two of you were in the same room that didn't end in at least one of you with a broken bone.

As you turn to leave, Sam catches your arm. “(Y/N), wait. Dean…” he pleads.

The air between you and Dean chills, your glaring lines of sight freezing over. Before the two of you can disintegrate each other, Sam steps in front of you, blocking your sight.

He throws his arms out to the side and drops them. “Will you just… tell me what happened to you two?”

“This isn’t exactly a new thing,” you reply. “We’ve been at each other’s throats since before I can remember.”

“But you could always work together. I don’t understand what happened there.”

“I left, as I’m sure you’ve heard,” you say.

“She made her choice, Sam,” Dean sneers. “We came to work the case. Let’s work the case.”

He tugs on Sam’s shoulder, but Sam shrugs him off, tilting his head at him. Dean responds with a firm stare, but it withers and reduces to a conceding eye roll.

Sam turns to you again. “One case. Please.”

You glance at Dean, who avoids your eyes, before dragging your gaze to Sam again.

“You know, that thing–” you wag a finger around his face– “that wide-eyed puppy dog thing you’ve got going on?”

He chuckles and shrugs.

“It’s still not freaking fair,” you groan.

“Something we agree on,” Dean says. “Now do we have more feelings to feel, or can we get to the body?”

“All right,” you sigh, extending an arm in the direction of the lab-coated woman across the room. “Your lead.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Really?”

You glance between the two brothers, examining the way they move with each other, even during an argument. You don’t underestimate their bond, or the disadvantage it leaves you at as an outsider.

“Unless you want to spend more time discussing it,” you snap at him.

He raises a hand in surrender before continuing on to the doctor.

“Agents,” she greets. “What can I do for you?”

“Hey, doc. I’m Special Agent Clapton. These–” he gestures to you and Sam– “are Special Agents Baker and Bruce. We’re investigating the John Doe with the jelly insides.”

“Cream puff guy?” she says.

You stifle a laugh, but she notices and smirks in your direction.

“Sure thing, agents.” She leads you to the wall with the metal doors and pulls one open, sliding out the slab with a massive, swollen body laid atop it. “Appetizing, isn’t it?”

You mumble in agreement.

“We haven’t done the autopsy yet,” she explains. “The chief wants to run the corpse through some forensic radiological imaging before we perform any extractions.”

“People speak, doc,” you request.

She laughs. “Basically, we cut into him now – Vesuvius. We’re going to run some tests, take an x-ray, and then we’ll take a giant syringe and draw out the… jelly.”

“Now, what do you know so far?” Sam asks.

“They found the guy in the park, no ID and no one else around. I don’t have cause of death yet, but we did find something interesting.”

You tilt your head to watch as she lifts the shoulder of the body, revealing a large blue handprint. “We swabbed it, but nothing came up. It’s almost like it’s tattooed on there.”

“When do you think those lab results will be ready?” you ask.

“We’ll put a rush on it. Have it ready for you in a couple hours,” she answers.

You nod. “Thank you.”

She holds your gaze a little longer while she gathers some papers before crossing the room again to leave. “He’s all yours, agents.”

You turn away from the boys’ direction until you feel the blush in your cheeks cool.

Dean taps Sam’s arm. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“That someone’s got the hots for (Y/N),” Sam teases.

“One of the perks of not actually being a fed,” you say. “There’s no one to tell you you can’t hook up with the cute M.E.’s.”

“You would know, wouldn’t you, Sammy?” Dean says.

Sam rolls his eyes, shifting uncomfortably.

You shoot him a proud beam. “Wow, remind me to ask about that one later. In the meantime, what is it you were thinking?”

“Djinn,” they respond at the same time.

“Djinn? Since when do djinn liquefy their victims?”

“There’s an offshoot,” Dean explains. “We caught one of these last year.”

“Now all that’s left is to find out where it’s staying and kill it,” Sam states.

You nod. “Easy enough, right? How many tattooed, blue-eyed, pasty-skinned freaks can be running around this town?”

They exchange a glance.

“They’re not tattooed, blue-eyed, and pasty-skinned, are they?” you frown.

“That’s the thing – they can pass as humans,” Sam notes.

“We’re going down to the station to check out the missing persons in town. Why don’t you stay here with your… girlfriend… and wait for those results?” Dean suggests.

“Or you could come up with a better excuse for getting me out of the way.”

He draws back from your comment, but then shrugs. “All right. How about the last one of these we worked, it turned out to be the coroner?”

You turn to Sam, who nods. Out the small window of the swinging doors, the doctor reaches across the counter to hand a file to the receptionist who greeted you earlier.

“You think it’s her?”

“I’m not thinking anything yet,” Dean says. “So, you good here?”

You nod.

As Dean leaves through the same swinging doors, Sam sucks in a breath, which he sighs out again. “Wow.”

“What?” you prod.

“Nothing, just…” He rubs the back of his neck. “If he thought I was so much as looking at someone we might have to kill, he’d never leave me alone with her.”

“Well, I always was the detached one. Maybe that’s part of why he hates me.”

“Or maybe it’s why he wants to hate you.”

“What do you mean?”

Sam shakes his head. “Nothing.”

“Sam!” Dean calls, propping the door open. “You coming or what?”

Sam follows him out the door, sending a small wave in your direction.

The doctor – Doctor Elizabeth Finch, you learn – performs the autopsy and has the results to you before lunch. Pouring rain splatters the parking lot as you walk across, clutching the folder against your chest. You reach the diner and spot the boys in a corner booth.

“Hey,” you greet, sliding into the bench next to Sam.

“That it?” Dean nods to the folder you dump on the table.

“The autopsy report of one John Doe,” you confirm.

“Not anymore,” Sam states. “The guy’s name was Karl Sanders.”

“You ID’d him?”

“He’s an attorney from a town in the next state over,” Dean says.

You shake your head. “This is making less and less sense.”

“What do you mean?”

You flip open the folder and point tap a point on the first page. “The doctor found trace particles of wood and lividity marks from a paneled surface. She thinks it’s from finished wood from some kind of structure.”

Dean frowns. “So, what the hell is going on here?”

“Beats me.”

“What else did she get from the body?” Sam asks.

“It looks like he died of a fever. The creamy filling was essentially his melted internal organs.”

“Oh, perfect timing,” Sam says. He eyes the waitress who carries three plates of food over to your table.

“All right, we’ve got the double bacon cheeseburger…” she announces, “Cobb salad… and a BLT, extra bacon for the lady. Enjoy.”

Her words, the sight of the sandwich she places in front of you, hurl you back in time. Suddenly, being here with your brothers, sitting in the same greasy diner every town has, doesn’t feel foreign at all.

“Wow,” you breathe. “I haven’t had one of these in ages.”

Sam shifts in his seat. He must have remembered from all those years ago that it was the only thing you ever ordered. The thought warms your heart.

“I, uh, just kind of assumed,” he says. “We can get you something else if–”

“It’s perfect, Sam. Thank you.”

He offers you a shy smile, barely meeting your eyes before turning to his salad.

You clear your throat. “If we’re still liking the doctor for this, I’m on board.”

“Why’s that?”

“Apparently, she does a lot of travelling, works all over as a forensic pathology consultant,” you repeat what she told you. “And besides, no one that interesting becomes an M.E. for the hell of it.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “If you think she’s so sketchy, why trust her autopsy?”

“I got a couple other doctors’ opinions without her knowing. They all agree.”

“We checked her out, too. Red flags everywhere. No family, no permanent address.”

“The gig makes it easy to cover up her kills,” Sam adds, “and the liquefied organs lines up with what we know about this kind of djinn.”

“We should track her down, find out what her deal is,” Dean suggests.

You bite your lip. “Well–” you pull out a business card, a room number of the hotel where she’s staying scrawled on the back– “I’ve got that one covered.”

The crackle of static over the speaker alerts Dean to your presence down the hall.

“Radio check,” you test.

He turns the receiver over in his hand and holds the button. “10-2. Loud and clear, (Y/N).”

“What am I looking for?”

“We don’t know yet,” Sam responds from over Dean’s shoulder. “Just keep an eye out for any red flags.”

“10-4. I’m going in.”

“Be careful, (Y/N),” Sam says.

Dean watches the video feed from the camera attached to the button of your shirt as it moves with you on Sam’s computer screen.

“Why do you have to do that?” he grumbles, setting the receiver on the glass tabletop of the hotel room with a clatter.

Sam’s eyes dart around in confusion. “Do what?”

“With (Y/N).” Dean flings a hand toward the radio. “Treating her like…”

Sam raises his eyebrows. “Like she’s our sister?”

“She’s not,” Dean snaps, “all right? She walked out on us.”

“She walked out on you,” Sam retorts. “And so did I, but you came and got me at Stanford anyway, so don’t pretend that’s what this is about.”

Dean draws back in shock at his brother’s words. The two of you had issues since the night of the fire, and when Sam left for Stanford, you lost what little buffer he provided. That, Dean always thought, was when the tension gave out and you finally snapped. It was what made you leave, too.

He doesn’t respond to Sam as your three raps on the door sound through the speaker.

It opens with a click, revealing the doctor’s casual form.

“Agent Baker,” she greets, her voice sultrier than Dean remembers.

Your voice deepens to a low hum. “Doctor Finch.”

She chuckles. “You can call me Liz.”

“Well, in that case, you can call me–”

“Okay.” Sam reaches over and turns a knob on the radio, muting the voices. “That’s enough of that.”

The picture shakes as you make your way inside, the video scanning the room. Dean glances over the suite, complete with a king-size bed, kitchenette, and a sofa, its design similar to the room they rented for tonight.

You sit on the couch and the camera stills, following the doctor – Liz – as she stands with her back to you at the minibar. She makes her way toward you, a glass of something clear in each hand, one of which she holds out to you.

She joins you on the couch, close enough to reach out and touch you. She crosses one leg over the other, pushing the fabric of her skirt up her thigh, and when you turn, Dean can see her arm slink across the back of the sofa.

Sam mutters something about him staring, but Dean only waves him off.

You set your drink on the coffee table and make your way across the room toward a bathroom.

Sam turns the radio up again. “(Y/N), tell me you didn’t touch that drink.”

“Of course not,” you whisper.

When your reflection in the mirror comes into view, Dean can see the fading blush in your cheeks.

“What do you see?” Dean asks.

You open a cabinet in the corner of the bathroom, which holds only a few white towels on the shelves. At the vanity, you run the faucet before shuffling through the drawers. You pull back the shower curtain to find an empty, pristine white tub and a shower caddy with hotel soaps.

“Nothing but normal human people stuff,” you conclude. “But if I were a djinn, I wouldn’t be draining people’s blood in my company-sponsored four-star hotel room either.”

“See if you can get anything out of her,” Sam says.

“All right, stand by.” You turn off the water and make your way outside again.

The screen travels from the empty couch to the bed, where Liz perches. The picture shakes as your breath hitches in your chest before you shuffle across the room to meet her.

“You know, the people I work for always set me up in these big hotel rooms with these huge beds,” Liz drawls. “They really are cozier with two people.”

You chuckle, and even Dean can barely pick up on the shocked quiver in your laugh. “I’ll bet they are.”

She extends her arms to you and you accept with your own. When she pulls your chest against hers, she covers the camera and the screen goes dark. Dean hears static again as your mic brushes against fabric.

“You don’t want to get to know me better?” you murmur.

“Not particularly,” she teases. “Do you?”

“I think I know enough,” you say. “You’re not what I thought you were.”

Dean looks to Sam for confirmation of what he already knows: your last comment was meant for them. She’s not the djinn.

Before he can curse, the sound of your lips smacking against hers cuts through the disappointment and fills the room. This time, Dean’s hand shoots out to turn down the volume knob.

“Well, now what?” he huffs.

“I don’t know,” Sam admits. “I guess we– Wait.”

On the screen, Liz looks directly at them – or, rather, at the camera. Dean can’t hear her, but the rage and disgust in her eyes leave little to the imagination as her lips move at you.

The video follows you all the way down the hall until you burst through the door of their own room, eyes wide. You lean your back against the door, your chest rising and falling.

After a few silent moments, Dean opens his mouth to speak.

“Nope,” you interject, “we’re not talking about it.”

Later in the night, you pore over a map splayed out on the table while Sam traces his eyes across his computer screen and Dean rifles through the pages of an ancient book. Your head bobs back and forth as you struggle against your leaden eyelids.

“That’s it. I’m getting coffee,” you declare. “And some food. Any requests?”

The boys glance at each other before turning to you again.

“That’s not a good idea, (Y/N),” Sam says, “not with a djinn running around.”

You raise a tired eyebrow at him, daring him to try a better reason.

“Besides, that lady probably called the cops on you. They could catch you,” he argues.

“I’d like to see them try,” you remark.

He looks to Dean with pleading eyes, but Dean doesn’t meet them.

“The diner’s, like, three blocks away. I’ll be twenty, thirty minutes tops, all right?” you say.

Your voice is firm, but you still wait for his sigh of reluctant agreement before you head out the door.

Gloom and mugginess hangs in the air from the earlier rain, and you track mud into the lobby of the hotel when you make your way back, a carrier of coffee in one hand and a plastic bag of Styrofoam plates in the other.

Sam clears a space so you can drop them on the table, looking more content than earlier. As you survey the room, you guess why.

“Where’s Dean?”

“Look, don’t be mad,” he says. “He went to follow you.”

You narrow your eyes at him, still too tired to process his words. When you finally do, the thought of Dean going after you tugs the corners of your lips up.

Your hope sinks as quickly as it rose.

“We’ve got to go,” you say, collecting a silver knife and the small pot of lamb’s blood from the table.

“(Y/N), wait. It’s okay,” Sam insists. “He’ll be back in a few minutes.”

You pocket the knife and check the magazine of your gun. “I know he’s good, but so am I. Sam, I would’ve known if someone’d been tailing me the past half hour.”

The realization seems to strike more quickly with him before he springs into action, echoing your movements before following you out the door.

Read part two here!

#Supernatural #Supernatural x reader #Spn x reader #Supernatural oneshot #Spn oneshot #Spn #Dean Winchester #Sam Winchester #sister!reader #Winchester sister!reader #oneshot #writing is hard #Bad Terms #angst

180 notes · View notes