#tagging this like i’m firing a flare gun in the woods at night | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

axwalker · 3 years

Text

AFTER

I’ve never liked the way PB wrote everything that happens after Drake gets shot trying to save MC --they don’t even go to a freaking hospital!!

I think this might have been done before but I wanted to share my own version of it. I hope you enjoy it!

This is my contribution for DAY THREE OF TRRAW hosted by @trraw

This ONE-SHOT belongs to The Walker’s universe but it’s a stand alone. MASTERLIST HERE.

I hope you enjoy it!

Book and Pairing: TRR Drake x Alexis (MC)

Warnings: Shooting, coma.

ALL MY FICS ARE +18.

Words: 2,868

Disclaimer: All characters and some dialogues and places belong to Pixelberry.

Tagging perma:

@mskaneko @drakexwillow @burnsoslow @thegreentwin @kat-tia801

@gkittylove99 @no-one-u-know @twinkle-320 @forallthatitsworth @marshmallowsandfire @marshmallowsaremyfavorite @princessleac1

@twinkleallnight @tinkie1973 @moneyfordiamonds

DRAKE

My lungs draw in air, bringing consciousness and chaos rushing back to me. And pain. So much pain. My vision is blurred as if I’m underwater. I can’t move; I can hardly take some shallow breaths. Gunshots, screams, and fire sound through the ringing in my ears. My left arm is heavy with deep, piercing pain. I feel dizzy and disoriented, but I have to make sure where Lexie is. She has to be alive. I remember the gun pointing at her, and terror, as I’ve never known, invades me, carrying adrenaline through my blood.

“Lexie,” I croak. “Lexie!” My gaze darts all over, assessing. A pool of blood, seeping into the floor below me, freeze my veins. Please, God, don’t let it be her. I struggle to sit up, but the sharp pain stops me. Trembling, I turn to see the hole in the skin of my forearm, up to my elbow. The screaming starts again closer, and I realize that Alexis is not hurt.

My relief is short-lived when I realize Alexis’s crying inconsolably. She seems desperate; her hands are drenched, red. Her dress is soaked up in blood. For a minute, I panic again, but I realize it is my own blood she has all over her. I sigh, relieved, and try to tell her that I’m in fine, but I can’t get the words out of my mouth.

I struggle to stand up, but I feel someone or something trying to keep me pinned where I am. It’s not Lexie because she’s kneeled next to me. Telling me … something. I can’t hear her. Her hands go from my face to my chest and my hair. Huge tears are rolling from her eyes. Suddenly, her soothing touch stop, and I want to scream. Leo is holding her; she seems so broken. I want to take her in my arms, tell her that I’ll be okay, but I can’t speak.

Finally, my eyes fall shut under a wave of dizziness that I can’t avoid. The last thing I see is Alexis’s sad face before blackness comes down.

A thousand stars twinkle in the sky; I’m lying in the middle of the woods. Lexie is next to me, her small hand engulfed by mine. Despite the frosty wind, I feel warm, content for the first time in a long time. I want to stay here, like this, with her forever.

Suddenly, we’re back at the palace, and she’s in my arms. We’re swaying slowly at the rhythm of an old waltz, and I realize it’s the happiest moment of my life. Just moments ago, her warm body was writhing, moaning beneath me. She was mine.

Now she’s here. With me. You have to wake up now, she says. Please, Drake. Wake up, my love. I don’t understand what she’s talking about; I try to hold on to her, but she keeps crying and begging for me to wake up over and over again.

I try to tell her I’m here with her. That I’m never going to let her go. That I regret every second, we wasted because I refused to listen to her. That I can’t wait to spend the rest of our lives together. But I can’t. My eyes refuse to open, my brain to cooperate. She’s so close and so far away from me. This is punishment for chasing after what wasn’t mine. For using Liam’s trust and deceive him. For hurting Lexie. I hurt the woman I loved when I swore I’d never do that. Never love anyone. I shouldn’t love anyone. I know I don’t deserve her, but I just couldn’t help myself.

Her tornado-like personality sweeps people up, and it was so powerful, it drew me in so that I wanted to kiss her and touch her and make her mine.

Please baby, please, stop crying.

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

My eyes flare open, and my body spasms. Terror surge through my veins as I slam into the floor. Not the floor, a bed. My brain registers white sheets, fluorescent lights, incessant beeping—a sharp pain sliced through me. I try to scream, but something in my mouth and down my throat pushed air into my lungs instead.

“Drake.” A voice in my head. Soft and sweet. “Drake, look at me.” The voice is outside my head. I reach for it. I need it more than air. Lexie? I try to turn my head.

“Easy, now.” A man’s voice. Authoritative. Hands push me down at the shoulders. “Calm down,” he says. “That’s it. Don’t fight the machine.”

I try to inhale and exhale, but I can’t control my breathing. All the while, fluorescent lights come and go—my eyes. I’m opening and closing my eyes. I’m in here. This is me. The pain. Holy fuck, the pain. A red-hot sledgehammer to my right arm.

“Drake,” Lex says. Warm fingers fold around my hand. “It’s all right. Try to lie back.” Slowly my brain put things together. A bed with white sheets and beeping machines. This is a hospital. And Lex is here.

“Lexie,” I say. Or try to. The fucking tube in my mouth and down my throat blocks the word. I gag as more air pushes in.

“I’ll call the attending,” says the man, who must be a nurse. “Just stay with him. Keep talking and help get him oriented.”

Stay with me, my Lexie. Forever. My eyes fight hard to stay open. A plastic tube and white tape obscure my vision, but through and around it, I see her. Standing over me with brown hair falling down around her shoulders. Like a beautiful, peaceful dream after a long, dark night.

“Hey, Walker,” she says softly. Her little fingers intertwine with mine; her other palm runs smoothly over my forehead. “You’re all right. Just listen to my voice.” Her touch is so soft on my head. “You’re on a ventilator. Okay? It’s breathing for you. Try not to fight it. I’m right here. Keep listening to me. The respirator is to help you breathe until you come out of the sedation. That’s all.”

I wink again, unable to do anything else. Lexie reaches out her hand and caresses my cheek. I move my eyes and see Li and Savvy behind her.

My eyes fall shut in intense relief. My best friend and my little sister. Memories of safety and love from my childhood play on fast-forward—scraped knees and the time I fell from the treehouse. They were there for me. Over their shoulders, I see Bertrand and Max smiling. Savvy is here, Lexie is here, and Liam is all right. Everyone is.

“Hey there, Drake.” A tall man in a white coat is at the side of the bed now. “I’m Dr. Lahela. Let’s take a look at you…” He shines a light in my eyes. “You’re a very lucky man, Mr. Walker. You’ll need some physical therapy for your arm, but you’ll be fine.”

Alexis takes my hand and squeezes it. “You better never scare me like this again, Walker.” Her voice finally breaks. “I can’t live without you, Drake. Please, don’t do that again.”

I can’t talk, so I look at her trying to compel everything I feel for her. I treasure every shy smile, every kiss, every single laugh. I love her, and I don’t care if I deserve it or not. I’m never letting her go.

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

One Year Later

The day is finally here. I’m not one for nerves and that bullshit, but there’s no ignoring the tightness in my chest as I walk down the street. Even though I have the address memorized, I recheck my phone to verify that I’m at the correct address. It’s there in my text messages, the location Lexie sent.

We’ve been together for more than a year, and sometimes I’ll get texts like these. Lexie loves to be spontaneous. I never know if I’m going to show up and find some dark bar where she wants me to fuck her in the bathroom… or if it’s going to be this really fucking cool bookshop where we’ll linger for hours, talking about books before she eventually buys both our favorites.

Those dates mean everything to me. I love the sex—fucking love the sex—but Lexie is a world into herself, and I could spend the rest of my life exploring her and still not know everything there is to know.

Today’s different, though

It’s not just any day, not just any date.

It’s been a year since the attack.

I touch the box in my pocket, take a deep breath, and push through the doors and into the restaurant. After a quick word, the hostess leads me up a set of stairs to the roof. I shake my head as I look around.

Lexie does nothing halfway.

The roof isn’t huge, but there is a gazebo in the middle that I’m nearly certain isn’t there during regular events. A small bar has been placed in the side, and the rest of the space is cleared of tables and chairs. It will just be us tonight.

She’s leaning against the railing and looking out across Portavira. We’re high enough to have a decent view of the sea. Personally, I only have eyes for her.

She’s wearing flat sandals and a stunning red dress; it clings to her body all the way down to her knees before flaring out. I will never know how she walks in the damn thing, but I appreciate how good her ass and tiny waist look on it as I walk over and lean against the railing next to her.

“I’m surprised you didn’t have me jumping on a plane to find you this time.” Something she occasionally does. She loves to travel. And I love her: ‘Surprise, I’m in Athenes, come get me’ texts.

“I did consider it.” Lexie turns to me with a grin. Her mouth is painted a crimson shade identical to her dress. Fuck, the woman is so beautiful it makes my chest ache. Not just her face. All of her, inside and out. She bumps me with her elbow. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I love you.”

Her sexy grin turns into a full on smile that lights up her entire face. “You’re such a guy. All it takes is a short dress and a red lipstick.” She teases.

“It’s not that.” I take her hand and tug her toward the table set up for us. As we walk over, I study her expression. “How are you holding up?”

“I’m fine.” Lexie catches my raised eyebrow and sighs. “Look, this day is never going to be easy for me. I thought I lost you, but I promise I’m okay.” She hesitates. “How are you holding up?”

I answer her honestly. “I’m fine. I know this was a horrible day to you, but I barely remember anything.” I take Lexie’s hand and brush my mouth over her knuckles. “So, why’d you pick this place?”

She looks around, the light wind pulling at her silky hair. “It’s romantic.” She turns her hand in mine to lace our fingers together. “We’ve both been working a lot lately. While I fully intend to take you home, so you fuck my brains out, I thought it’d be a nice change of pace to have a nice Italian dinner first.” She smiles. “And this place has a cool seasonal menu.”

The bartender delivers drinks that Lexie must have ordered for us—both Macallan’s 18 years. We order and then sip in silence for a few moments. I shift the ring box, an ever-present reminder of what I plan for tonight at the beach.

I’m not used to feeling off-center. I sure as fuck have wasted too much time doubting myself. I do not doubt that I love her wildly. That she’s the woman for me. It’s her answer that frightens me.

And I’m still not sure tonight is the night for this.

“Drake.”

I realize I’ve been spacing out and grimace. “Sorry. What did you say?”

Lexie leans in, her expression going playful. “I said, ‘Is that a box in your pocket, or are you happy to see me?’”

I follow her gaze down to where the square is very plainly in view pressed against the slacks of my front pocket. “Well, fuck.”

Her eyes go wide. “Seriously? It’s not earrings or a bracelet or something?”

I pull the box out of my pocket, and I’m fucked up to realize my palms are sweaty. Jesus fuck, this is not how I planned to do this, but here we are. “It’s not earrings or a necklace, no.” I set the box on the table between us and take a breath. This might not be how I planned to go about things, but that doesn’t mean a fucking thing. Very little goes to plan when Lexie is involved; that’s one of the things I love most about her. I’ve learned to roll with the punches.

I take Lexie’s hands and hold her gaze.

“That night, I was terrified. When I saw that gun aimed at you, I thought I might lose you. And I can’t live without you.” Fuck, this is harder than I expected. It’s not the opening myself up that’s so challenging. No subject is off-limits with us. It’s more that I want the perfect words to describe how I feel, and I’m shit at words. I’m not a damn poet. I’m just me, and just me will have to be perfect because she deserves nothing less than perfection. “This year has been really fucking good, O’Brien. Every time I think I can’t love you more, you go and prove me wrong. I love the adventures and shit we get into together, just like I love the long afternoons we spend with takeout and movies and board games and shit. And the lazy mornings in bed. I love it all.”

I release one of her hands to open the box. It’s an heirloom, but it meant so much to my grandmother, I hope she likes it. Lexie deserves perfect. It’s a single ruby against a simple setting that lets the gem stand on its own.

Lexie stares at it for a long moment and then at me. “Drake, that’s so perfect.”

“You’re one hell of a woman.” I don’t move, barely breathe. “Will you marry me, Lexie?”

She screams and throws herself at me. “Of course I will.” Her lower lip quivers a little. “Damn, you’re going to make me cry after saying all those sweet, perfect things.” She holds still while I slip the ring onto her finger. She holds it up, smiling at the way it glints in the city lights. “A perfect fit.”

“Just like us.”

“Just like us,” she repeats. A heartbeat passes. Another as I try to rein myself. Then I lean down, take her face in my hands, and kiss her desperately like she’s the last thing I’ll ever taste. I kiss her with the power surging through my veins, with all the strength of my desire and happiness over this day. With all the want that’s burning through me—want of more than just her body. Everything I long for, everything I hold precious, I pour into her mouth—and my Lex responds beautifully. Her arms twine around my waist, pressing her soft belly against me. I’m so damn hard, I just want to push myself against her until she spreads her legs and lets me in. Instead, I slide my tongue into the softness of her mouth. She gasps. It makes me smile around her lips, knowing that I can make my girl gasp with just a slip of my tongue. I explore her slowly, wrapping an arm around her back and cradling her head, so when I thrust my tongue into the hot, soft sanctuary of her sexy mouth, she doesn’t have to work to stay upright. I kiss her soft and slow, and longer, harder until she’s gasping and my hand is slowly caressing her neck. Her back is pressed against the rail, and I’m thrusting against her. She’s rocking against me, too, and I stop. I see the waitress coming. We’ll have to wait a few hours until we’re together at the cabin, and I have time to explore every inch of her. Even if I know, it will never be enough.

She’s blushing, and it’s so fucking adorable I want to kiss her all over again. “You know, for a guy who says you’re not good with words, that was one hell of a proposal.”

“I just love you so fucking much, baby.”

“That’s why I’m going to marry you.” She hooks the back of my neck and brings me down for a kiss.

Lexie leans back and meets my gaze. “I don’t suppose you’re thinking what I’m thinking?”

“That we should pay the tab, get the food to go, and take it back to our cabin.”

“A man after my own heart.” She kisses me again, sweeter this time. “I love you, Drake Walker. So fucking much. I can’t wait to marry you.”

#axwalker writes #trraw2021 #drake walker #drake x lexie #drake walker fanfic #trr fanfic #tw shooting #drake x mc #drake walker x mc

120 notes · View notes

dru-plays-starbound · 3 years

Text

Castles in the Sand

Universe: Starbound Context: My entry for the Sept 14th prompt to the Homestead’s Fall Prompt Week. The prompt was: Theme: Vice & Virtue; Color Scheme: Neon tones; Quote: “Chant your anthems to the deaf” / “I’m breaking habits for the first time”. I used other parts of the quoted song (Not Ready To Die by Demon Hunter) to influence the other half of the idiom mentioned. CW: Alcohol, oppressive regimes, mild cursing Words: 1100 Tagging: @homesteadchronicles @strosmkai-rum

Yasahama tugged the collar of his jacket up and the brim of his hat down against the onslaught of rain, funnelled by the canyon-like buildings either side of the street. "I thought you told me conditions were favourable, SAIL?" he said into the comm on his wrist. "They are, Yasahama," came the modulated voice of his AI. "This planet has no excess heat or cold, nor threatening weather conditions." "It's raining, SAIL. Heavily. Rain is not 'favourable'." "You are a hylotl." The AI sounded confused. "My databanks tell me that hylotl enjoy water." "This rain's different," Yasahama muttered, splashing along the asphalt-paved road, acid-bright lights reflecting like oil slicks. Before SAIL could ask for more detail, Yasahama stopped and looked up at the garish pink sign hanging loosely to a corrugated panel. "Looks like I'm here," he said. "Wish me luck, buddy." "Luck is merely a series of statistical probabilities arrayed in favour of the observer." Yasahama gave a wry huff and pushed into the rickety building.

The room beyond wasn't as crowded as Yasahama had expected. In the dim light, only a few others of various races were present, scattered through the joint. "Hey, fella. If you're loaded, you ain't coming in." He turned, finding a blaster levelled at his face. The penguin behind it raised an eyebrow. Yasahama held up a hand, pulling his coat open to reveal an empty holster. "I'm unarmed, friend. Don't want any trouble. Just here to meet someone." The penguin scowled, lowering the blaster. "Fine. But don't forget, I've got an itchy trigger-flipper." Yasahama smiled, tight-lipped, and with a nod made his way to the bar.

"What can I get ya?" the bartender asked. Above the bar-back, the 'Beakeasy' sign hummed and flickered, coating his feathers intermittently with toxic-sunset pink. "I'll take a Reef Punch," Yasahama said, sliding a couple of pixels over the counter, the old wood polished into softness. He dropped a doubloon next to the pixels. "I'm looking for a friend of mine. Female apex, penchant for red scarves." The doubloon vanished. "Over in the far corner, behind the arcade machine." Yasahama nodded his thanks and, drink in hand, drifted over to the indicated booth.

"Blake." The apex looked up from her glass of Root Pop and ran a hand over her floppy brown mohawk as she sat back. "Sashimi." Yasahama rolled his eyes at the nickname as he slid into the seat opposite. "What was wrong with meeting at the Ark?" Lana Blake gave a noncommittal shrug. "You know why." "I really don't," Yasahama said. "They're our friends, Blake. They could help." Lana barked out a laugh. "Friends? Maybe. Of a sort. Help?" She shook her head. "No. They don't understand what's required in a mission like this. Not like you do." Yasahama rolled his shoulders. "Someday Blake, you'll need to leave that world behind you. Let new people in." A fist came down, making their glasses rattle. "How can I, when my people are still under the thrall of the Miniknog?" Yasahama pursed his lips at the outburst. "Big Ape is gone." "Big Ape was never there to start with!" Lana leant forward. "But it doesn't matter if Big Ape exists or not, not when the Miniknog still wields power." Yasahama's gills flared out. "What is it you want from me, Blake?"

Lana raked a hand over her mohawk again and readjusted her scarf. "There's a town on Shedar Legion Four. I want your help liberating it." "What kind of town? Are there already sympathisers in residence?" Lana pushed their glasses to one side and placed a holographic unit in the centre of the table. A fuzzy blue image of a town appeared; cute, standardised homes filled the picture, punctuated by uniform office blocks and factories. "It's medium-sized, only one Miniknog Commander housed here," she jabbed a finger through the hologram. "We should come from the South, overwhelm the Watch-" Yasahama grabbed her hand. "Sympathisers, Blake. Are there any? We both know you can't liberate anything under Miniknog control without them." Lana pulled her hand back, staying mulishly silent as she swirled the dark caramel liquor in her glass. "How does that idiom go?" Yasahama continued. "’Singing your hymns’-" "'Chanting your anthems to the deaf is a fruitless exercise'," Lana supplied. She looked back at him. "But it has a sister idiom – 'So take your empty voices and turn them into knives'." Yasahama gave a sad smile. "That's very poetic. But it doesn't solve your issue. If there's no one sympathetic to the rebellion – ready to fill the power vacuum left by the Miniknog Commander's assassination – then the town will just fall again." He leant forward, tone urgent. "You know this, Blake. What's your solution?" Their gazes locked for a long moment, Lana's silence deafening. Then Yasahama nictitated and looked away.

His fingers curled, bloodless, around the bowl of his glass. "I cannot help you then. Not this time. Not with this town." He threw back his drink, draining the cocktail in one go, ignoring the way Lana's fists balled on the dented tabletop. "I'm sorry-" Lana scoffed. "I am," Yasahama insisted. He sighed and rose, pausing with his hands flat on the table. "Call me again when your plan is more viable." Lana shook her head, teeth bared. "Apple-munching bastard. I should have known the last of the Protectorate would go soft on me." Yasahama stared her down, gills and nostrils flaring. "I should have known you'd use my talents to end The Ruin, then drop me like week-old bananas. You talked a good game, but when it came down, you only wanted your revenge. So fine. Ponce off. Some Protector you are – I'll go liberate that town by myself!" Yasahama gave her a cool look. "Are you done? You'll do no such thing, and you know it. Your plan is folly as it stands now." He sighed, tension easing from his shoulders. "Let me make some enquiries before you go jetting off to be gunned down by a Miniknog firing squad." Lana opened her mouth, but Yasahama halted her with an upraised hand. "I think you've said enough. Go back to the Ark. Get some rest, train with Nuru – and wait for my call. And, by the Ocean Tides, don't do anything foolish in the meantime." Lana growled at him, deep in her throat. Yasahama ignored her in favour of jamming on his hat and stalking out into the oleaginous night.

"SAIL?" "Yes, Yasahama?" "Tell Dallas to get the coffee on. I've got a long night ahead of me..."

#alcohol tw #writing #starbound #starbound fanfiction #HomesteadPromptWeekFall2021 #lana blake #the last protector #Wandering Words

13 notes · View notes

notgonnarememberthis · 3 years

Text

Pillars

Surprise!!! I didn't have intention of publishing a oneshot but this popped into my mind a couple of hours ago and it was just too good to ignore. I don't write Ainsley much so it was a lovely change to have her voice in my mind for a change and it was really fun to explore a more vulnerable aspect of her. Especially since her weakness appears to be her family being in danger. It was really fun to write and I hope y'all enjoy this as much as I did

Ainsley wakes up to the sound of a scream. It’s so loud it pierces through the walls. She startles, feeling her heart pounding in her ears. It takes her a few seconds to realize it wasn’t from her dream. The scream is very much real. She’s never heard anything like it, so full of pain and terror. Then she realizes it sounds very familiar.

“Mom.”

The rate at which she’s on her feet and running is dizzying. She almost rips her phone from the wall it’s plugged into with her urgency to move. Her bare feet echo on the floors as she races down the hall. She curses her urgency for privacy from when she moved in almost a year ago, insisting that she’ll need her own space since she’s been used to living alone for so long.

Her mother’s scream still echoing in her head makes her hate every step that she was too far from helping.

Her fingers shake too much as she tries to work her phone. Dialing the number almost absentmindedly from memory as tears stream down her face, panicked breaths too short to fill her lungs.

She should call 911, there could be an intruder or a fire or. She should call 911.

“Malcolm Bright, leave your name and number and I’ll call you back.”

His voicemail taunts her as she tries to school her panic. She can’t call anyone but him. She needs Malcolm. He’d know what to do. He’d know how to save her. He’d get there faster than any cop would.

Except maybe Gil.

Finally she’s in front of her mother’s door. She doesn’t even bother knocking, instead reaching for and twisting the golden handle. Yet, it doesn’t budge in her grip. She tries again, then once more before the horror truly sets in. Her door is locked and Ainsley can’t hear anything coming from the inside.

Not that she can hear much over her own heartbeat.

“Mom!” She pounds on the door, tears flowing freely imagining everything horrific her mind has to offer. Her mother choking on blood, stabbed in the stomach collapsing just out of reach of the door, a gun trained on her temple if she tries to scream. Ainsley throws her weight against the door but it’s no use, the wood is expensive and she just bounces painfully off it. She ignores the flare of pain resorting to pounding again with her good arm when the door swings open.

She freezes when a very tired and very concerned looking Gil answers. She thought he’d come fast but this is ridiculous.

Her rational mind comes to as her panic ebbs momentarily. Gil had dinner with them last night, she retired for the night before he left. He had a few drinks, there was no way her mother would let him drive and insist that he stay.

“Ainsley? Is everything ok?” She glances over his shoulder not seeing her mother anywhere behind him. She must have slipped into the closet, probably sitting at the vanity.

“I heard-” She thinks for a moment. Was it all a dream? She could have sworn… It sounded so real. “I heard a scream.”

His shoulders drop, a soft look of understanding passes over the man’s features. “A nightmare.” He assures her.

“No. I know what I heard. I heard-”

“No, Ainsley.” He stops her with a had up. “Your mother had a nightmare.”

She tenses, confusion knotting her brows. She’s no stranger to someone waking up screaming in the night. Hell, she grew up familiar with the sound of Malcolm’s night terrors. A scream, the sound of running, a struggle, and then her mother’s gentle voice coaxing him awake again.

It was always Malcolm though. Never her.

“I don’t understand.”

“She just had a nightmare. I’ve got her, kid. Don’t worry.”

She almost scoffs at his words. Don’t worry? Not even when she was faced against a literal serial killer did she hear her mother make more than a yell. A challenge against her opponent. She always fought back. Always. How the hell would she be able to stop hearing that scream? She sounded so… helpless.

She’s never known her mother to be helpless.

“I can’t.”

“Ains.” She stops, only Malcolm calls her that but it’s enough to disrupt her thoughts. “She’s safe.”

Her face sinks with realization. “The pills.” Gil’s expression only confirms it. The sad almost guilt that passes over him, and she knows. Her mother had talked to her and Malcolm about it before. How she planned to get clean. No more relying on pills and booze to survive. She didn’t want to miss another moment. Those were her words.

Ainsley has had only a small peek at the bottles before when her mother was sulking over Malcolm’s treatment of her. Ones she expected, having seen from Malcolm were there. Valium, Ativan, Marplan. Yet the one bottle screams in her memory now.

The sleeping pills.

“She never…” Guilt clenches in her chest. “I didn’t know.”

“You couldn’t.” He assures her gently with a sad smile. “She would never have let you or Malcolm know.”

“Is she…”

“At the vanity.” He nods, understanding her question. Sitting at the vanity is almost never good. After moving in Ainsley often found her there, so locked in her own thoughts she didn’t hear or see her come in. She understands why, in a way. It gives her space to think, where the walls never feel too much like him. The closet was always her space. Ainsley remembers it almost looking the exact same as when she’d run in to play makeup with her.

She wonders if the familiarity is a comfort or a punishment.

“You want to see her?” Ainsley chews on her lip, thinking. Would her mother want her to see her like this? Probably not. Yet she had to have heard them talking. She doesn’t hear her protesting either. She would not be shy to request her time alone. She nods. “Come on.” Gil guides her into the room, softly knocking on the door before opening it just a little. “Jess, sweetheart. Someone wants to see you.”

No protest again. Ainsley shuffles forwards, suddenly feeling very much like the shy five year old who came to check on her older brother after he had a nightmare. She always had her favorite stuffed rabbit ready to share to keep away the bad dreams. She wishes she had the bunny right now. To wordlessly pass to her mother without needing the explanation. Without having to say what they both already know.

Her mother turns to her, eyes dark from lack of sleep. Ainsley wonders how long it took her to work up the courage to close her eyes. How long it took for them to fly back open in terror. They’re red rimmed too, from tears, she recognizes. She’s never seen her mother cry. The thought terrifies her.

Yet when her mother sees her, the expression changes. A soft look of guilt and understanding. “Oh baby,” She reaches out a hand and Ainsley goes to her. More tears she didn’t know she had left spilling down her cheeks. She rises from her seat meeting Ainsley in the embrace. She wraps her arms as tight as she can around her mother, her face burying into her shoulder. All the fear and sadness she felt melts out of her at once. The slow stream of tears turning into full body sobbing in the comforting touch. Fingers comb at her tangled blonde curls, separating the knots from her own restless sleep. “I’m so sorry I scared you sweetheart.” She whispers in her ear.

She shakes her head trying to reject the apology. Yet the crashing realization that her mother isn’t this pillar of strength and bravery weighs heavily on her. She wonders if Malcolm even knows.

Oh god, she’s going to have to explain her crying voicemail to Malcolm.

“Are you ok?” She finally asks when she has the strength to talk.

“Oh my sweet girl.” She breathes, pulling away just to trace her jaw. “I’ve got you right here, I’m more than ok.” She places a kiss on her hairline enveloping her in a hug again. “It was just a nightmare. I’m ok.” Ainsley bites her tongue at the thought of what her nightmares could possibly look like. Malcolm’s were terrifying to hear about and he has suppressed memories.

Her mother knows every face, every name. Every single image.

Gil’s knock interrupted her second wave of panic. “I talked to Malcolm. Figured he might see Ainsley called and panicked when he woke up.” She feels her mother nod in understanding.

“He’s not coming, is he?”

“No. I managed to convince him everything was ok.”

“Good.” She pulls away from the hug, though her fingers still linger on his arms. “Do you want to sleep with me tonight?” Ainsley looks between her and Gil. A selfish part of her wants to nod, curl up next to her mother and keep her safe from the nightmares just like she did for her after the memories of Endicott started resurfacing.

“It’s ok kid. I’ll sleep in a guest room tonight.”

“Nonsense.” She scoffs. “The bed could easily fit all three of us plus Malcolm. That is, if you’re ok with it.” Ainsley realizes she’s talking to her and nods. Gil had always felt like a father to her, even when his focus was on Malcolm. He always asked if she’d like to tag along to a baseball game or a trip to the planetarium. Anything to make them feel like normal kids.

She still has the stuffed astronaut he bought her.

“Is that ok with you?” Ainsley asks Gil and he smiles, wide and warm. Nothing like Martin’s.

“I’d like that.”

They fit comfortably back in the bed. With Ainsley hugging her mother close to her. She’s more than used to the octopus grip and settles in, manicured fingers scratching her back in smooth lulling patterns. Gil takes place behind her mother, safely cushioning her between the two of them. This way she’s protected from both sides. Ainsley smiles at the image but it does calm her when she sees him offer his arm to lay on to her mother.

They both fall asleep before she does. Neither stir while she listens to the soft noises of the quiet slumber. She hopes, against everything that has happened, that they get to keep this soft moment. After everything that’s happened her mother deserves to be happy. She thinks with him, she could be.

Maybe they all could be.

25 notes · View notes

searchingwardrobes · 4 years

Text

Self Promo Sunday

Here is another fic of mine from before Tumblr, so this is the first time it's been posted in its entirety here with a picset to go with it. I have honestly always been amazed at the reception this simple one shot has received. I recently also saw someone searching for a fic that takes place around this time in canon, so I thought it might be a good time to repost it. This story was written before Emma told Killian about the dream and the prophecy on the show, so it is now canon divergent.

Summary: As Emma traces the tattoo on Killian's wrist with her thumb, she's more sure than ever that she can't tell him her secret. Killian does something unique to assure Emma she doesn't need to fear the future. Set after 6x02.

Rating: T

Words: a little over 1,500

Also on Ao3

Tagging the usuals: @snowbellewells @kmomof4 @xhookswenchx @let-it-raines @teamhook @bethacaciakay @tiganasummertree @welllpthisishappening @wellhellotragic @winterbaby89 @sherlockianwhovian @superchocovian @shireness-says @spartanguard @optomisticgirl @stahlop @resident-of-storybrooke @thislassishooked @ilovemesomekillianjones @lfh1226-linda @ultraluckycatnd @jennjenn615 @ekr032-blog-blog @nikkiemms @hollyethecurious @profdanglaisstuff @kday426 @distant-rose @carpedzem @ohmakemeahercules @branlovestowrite @delirious-latenight-laughs @scientificapricot @snidgetsafan @vvbooklady1256

The early morning rays of the sun shone through the cracks in the blinds, and Emma Swan blinked at the brightness in front of her eyelids. As she felt herself slowly emerge from the haze of sleep, the first thing that came into focus was the metal hook standing at attention on her nightstand, the curve of stainless steel glinting in the morning light. A sleepy smile filled Emma’s face as memories of the night before came rushing back. Finally – finally! – she and Killian had gotten some uninterrupted alone time, and despite the heavy burden Emma was hiding from him, it had been glorious.

Emma rolled over to face him in their king size bed, slightly surprised that he was still asleep. Her heart constricted as she watched the reassuring rise and fall of his chest. Unable to resist the temptation to be nearer to him, she slowly eased herself to his side, wriggled into the crook of his arm, and lay her head on his chest. Killian shifted in his sleep, but didn’t awaken. Emma was glad; she wanted to drink in the sight of him: his face relaxed in sleep, his dark hair sticking up adorably, and the sheets pooled at his waist. Emma reached up to trace first his jawline and then the scar on his cheek. Her hand stilled as Killian sighed and turned his face into her touch, but he still didn’t waken.

Killian’s vulnerability in sleep and the gentle thud of his heart beneath her cheek suddenly became overwhelming, and Emma turned over to face the nightstand again. Yet she didn’t pull away from his side. His right arm still lay loosely beneath her, and when she looked down, the tattoo at the end of his wrist was on perfect display by the light of the window. It had never bothered her, never made her jealous. She traced it lazily now with the pad of her thumb, over the letters that spelled Milah, the curves of the heart, the jagged edges of the dagger. Killian shifted again behind her. He rolled towards her, gathering her close to him with both arms. He mumbled a good morning against her neck, his breath and scruff tickling her skin.

Neither of them made a move to rise. The rise and fall of Killian’s chest against her bare back made Emma wonder if he had dozed off again. She still hadn’t let go of his right wrist, her thumb still playing over the colors tattooed there. She knew the whole story behind the tattoo now. There should have been no more questions.

“Killian?” Emma whispered.

“Mhm . . .” he responded sleepily, voice muffled against her shoulder.

“Why didn’t you get a tattoo when Milah was still alive?”

Killian chuckled, and she could tell by the sound of his voice that he was fully awake now. “I suppose because she wasn’t quite the romantic I was. She would have found such a gesture . . . sentimental.”

Emma fell silent, glad he couldn’t see her face. Thoughts tumbled in her brain, becoming so twisted up she feared she would never sort them out. The urge to stay here forever – lock the door and keep the rest of the world out – surged up inside her.

Oblivious to her inner turmoil, Killian began to trail kisses along her bare shoulder. In a teasing voice, he asked, “Are you trying to hint that you want me to get an Emma Swan tattoo?”

“No!”

The word burst from Emma’s throat like a bullet from a gun. She sprang from Killian’s embrace as if his touch burned her. With shaking hands she grabbed her bathrobe and pulled it tight around herself.

“No,” she muttered again, tucking her hair behind her ears and avoiding the hurt she was sure would be in Killian’s eyes. “That’s the last thing I want.”

Before Killian could say a word, she turned and fled from the bedroom. She went downstairs to the kitchen and began making coffee, slamming cabinet doors to try and release her frustrations with the universe. When she turned around, she wasn’t surprised to find Killian standing there.

“Have I done something, love? Something to upset you?”

It broke her heart that Killian assumed this was his fault. She sighed and wearily rubbed her temple. “No, babe, of course not.”

Killian narrowed his eyes, as if attempting to read her. “Are you sure?”

Emma felt her hand suddenly start to shake again. She clasped her hands together to mask it, and in her frustration, she snapped, “Yes, I’m sure!”

Emma saw the fire of his temper flare up in his eyes. “Then why did you respond the way you just did upstairs? As if the thought of a tattoo to symbolize my love for you was grotesque?”

“That’s not what I meant!”

“Does my tattoo bother you?”

“No!!”

“Then what?!”

“Because a tattoo would mean I’m dead!”

The look on Killian’s face went from anger and hurt to shock in a single moment. “Why would you . . .I don’t . . .” He shook his head in confusion, stepping towards her and taking her hands in his. “Are you ill?”

Emma shook her head, unable to stop the tears from spilling down her face. She couldn’t do this to him. She thought of Liam dying in his arms, of Gold crushing Milah’s heart right in front of him. She thought of the little lost boy with no parents. He had lost everyone. And now, even though he had come back from the dead, he would lose her too.

Emma squared her shoulders and wiped at her cheeks. Killian tried to hold her, but she stepped from his embrace and turned her back.

“I’ll tell you everything, Killian, but I can’t look at you while I do. It hurts too much.” And then it all came pouring out: the visions, what Hyde had said, the oracle in the woods.

“Emma-“ Killian began, his voice laced with comfort, but Emma cut him off.

“I have to get ready for work now.”

Killian didn’t attempt to press her for conversation as she showered and dressed. When she left for the station, he gave her a chaste good-bye kiss on the cheek. Emma avoided eye contact, so she wasn’t sure if he was respecting her space or pulling away to lessen the sting of inevitable loss. She herself was intimately familiar with the latter. She wouldn’t blame him.

He did try to call while she was at work. Only twice – he wasn’t the pushy type. Both times, Emma slid her thumb across the screen to reject his call, the weight of guilt pressing down between her shoulder blades.

That evening, she told her father that it was about time she organized the mess of files the dwarves had left behind while they were all in Camelot. David raised his eyebrows and asked if anything was wrong between her and Hook. Her nerves were so raw, she snapped a “no” in response that made her father visibly jerk. Which made it pretty obvious that things weren’t fine, but her father asked no more questions.

As Emma had planned, by the time she got home, the house was dark. The first thing she noticed when she walked through the front door was Henry’s book bag at the foot of the stairs. Her guilt intensified in realizing she had missed an evening with her son. On the kitchen table were two notes: one from each of her boys. Killian’s informed her in his flowery script that he had left a plate of dinner for her in the fridge. Henry’s, despite everything, brought a smile to her lips: “Mom! Killian helped me finish my homework early so we could have a movie night. Ask him what he thought of Han Solo! Love you, Henry”

Emma, not feeling the least bit hungry, bypassed the fridge and headed straight for the stairs. She tiptoed quietly so she wouldn’t wake anyone. In the master bedroom she found Killian asleep with a book still in his hand and the lamp still on. As her gaze swept over his bare torso, she noticed something on his left shoulder that hadn’t been there before. Easing herself as quietly as possible onto the mattress, she leaned over for a closer look. Sure enough, there on Killian’s left shoulder was a new tattoo, still covered in the sheen of ointment from the tattoo parlor.

Emma gasped softly when she saw what it was. A swan’s neck bending gracefully towards a curved hook to form a heart. The bed shifted, and Emma lifted her gaze to meet Killian’s bright blue eyes. He searched her face in a silent question, then smiled.

“You’ve never minded that I’m sentimental.”

And that was all Killian said as he caught one of Emma’s tears with his thumb. He could have said so many things, and most likely with perfect eloquence. He could have reminded her of Zeus, or all the times they had defied fate. He could have told her he had faith in her to defeat any foe. But he didn’t say any of those things.

He didn’t have to. The tattoo said it all.

#cs ff #cs canon divergence #self promo sunday #cs 6x2 #tattoos

67 notes · View notes

javocjovian · 5 years

Text

The Wendigo - PB Gift Exchange

Happy Exchange @maggiemaybe160 !!!

I wrote this for this year’s Profound Bond Gift Exchange!!! The theme was ‘Masquerade’!

Title: The Wendigo Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21522769 Ship: Destiel Word Count: 3568 Warnings: PTSD trauma, parental abuse trauma Tags: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, past physical/emotional abuse, PTSD, Trauma, Injury, Healing, Happy Ending, Fluff, First Kiss, more Fluff, Supportive Sam Summary: Dean has a lot of baggage from his childhood. Castiel wants to help, if Dean will let him.

Beta-ed by @cozibizzle

The Wendigo

Dean was injured. Not enough to threaten his life, but certainly enough to gripe about, especially as it was making Sam fuss unnecessarily over him.

"Would you stop already? I'm fine," Dean snapped. He was sitting on a moth eaten couch in an old cabin—one of their dad's from a lifetime ago, or so it seemed. Dean's jacket sleeve was bloody and frayed, and he had snow in his hair. Sam and Dean were both flushed from the cold.

Sam glared at him incredulously. He tossed the first aid kit on the ground at Dean's feet and stalked away.

Dean felt a sick satisfaction at making Sam mad—it eased his own pain somewhat—but it didn't last. Shame washed over him as soon as Sam left the room, and the burning pain in his arm increased tenfold. Dean shut his eyes.

Sam and Dean came to this cabin once when they were kids. John was hunting a wendigo, but it got away. When Sam and Dean heard about similar deaths happening in the same stretch of woods, they had to come.

At least the wendigo was finally dead, Dean thought. What was one burnt forearm compared to that? Hell, they even saved the girl this time. Dean would call that a win any day. He was just tired, in pain, and he'd never wanted a drink so badly in his life. He'd apologize to Sam later.

A rush of wintry air blew Dean's thoughts away as the cabin door opened.

Dean looked up in surprise at the messy haired, trenchcoated figure of Castiel. He looked severe—although he always sort of looked like that.

"Hey, Cas," Dean said, dropping his voice.

Castiel shut the door. "I got your message," he rumbled.

"Yeah, well, you're late," Dean grunted. "Party's over. We killed it."

Castiel looked Dean over. He didn't seem to have heard a word Dean said. He was staring at Dean's singed sleeve.

"The campers are fine, by the way," Dean added, but when Castiel only squinted harder at his arm, Dean sighed and added, "I'm good." He shifted his arm to prove it and doused the resulting pain with a rough smirk. "Why don't you go check on Sam?"

Dean could have kicked himself. Why did he have to be such an ass? He stared Castiel down, anything to avoid looking at the cabin.

Castiel seemed immune to Dean's rudeness, however. He strode over to the couch and sat down beside Dean. Despite feeling suddenly numb, the pain in Dean’s arm doubled when Castiel touched it.

Dean hissed, making Castiel look up. For a moment they made eye contact, and Dean felt his own gaze harden.

Castiel didn't flinch. He maintained his hold on Dean's arm and said, "Take off your jacket."

Dean eyed him, feeling a kick of defiance. What would happen if he refused? The impulse faded however, and he began taking off his jacket.

Castiel didn't help at all, even though Dean was sure he looked like an idiot trying to wiggle out of his jacket with only one functioning arm. It was cold in the cabin, but it felt good on his burned arm. Finally he was free and returned his arm to Castiel.

Castiel's hands were warm and surprisingly gentle as he rolled up Dean's sleeve. The burn was worse than Dean thought. He regretted pushing Sam away, and yet he knew he was doing it again to Cas by being so rude.

"Can you heal it?" Dean asked, only to break the silence.

"Yes," Castiel said softly. "But it will hurt."

A sound from the hallway made both Dean and Castiel look over. Sam was watching them with what Dean thought was entirely too much understanding.

"Hello Sam," Castiel greeted him.

"Hey Cas," Sam replied, although his eyes were on Dean.

"What?" Dean grunted.

Sam sighed. "Nothing."

Dean glared at him, then at Cas, and said, "Just do it."

Castiel eyed Dean curiously, and Dean had to fight the urge to take his arm back. Why did Castiel have to look at him like that? It made Dean feel weak, and he didn't want that. Not there, in that cabin, with Sam's knowing gaze burning into his soul.

Without warning, pain shot up Dean's arm. The wintry air inside the cabin vanished, and it felt like all the bones in his arm had been replaced with white hot rods. He swore and grabbed onto the couch. Just as Dean was sure he would retch from the intensity of the pain, it was all over.

Dean leaned back on the couch, panting. "God dammit, Cas," he said weakly.

Something in Dean's voice made Castiel's gaze soften. Dean shut his eyes again and just focused on breathing.

It was only when Castiel shifted slightly that Dean realized he'd been gripping him, not the couch. Dean pulled his arm away reflexively. It didn't hurt anymore. He looked it over and was surprised to see his arm whole and intact. Fresh, white skin was stretched over the burn, which now looked several weeks old.

"That will fade with time. I'm sorry I couldn't do more."

Dean's expression softened. "It's good, Cas. Thanks." He flexed his hand, wishing Castiel would look somewhere else.

"Well, I'm turning in," Sam said quietly, an undeniable note of relief in his voice. "Do you want the bed, Dean?"

"No," Dean said a little too firmly.

Sam sighed again. "Alright, well, I say we head out in a few hours. Get some sleep. See you later, Cas."

"Goodnight, Sam," Castiel replied.

Dean didn't look at Sam as he walked into the back bedroom. He was gazing at the blue veins under his healed skin.

"So," Dean finally said, "are you gonna poof away now or what?"

Castiel looked surprised by the question, and it reignited Dean's shame.

"If you want me to," Castiel said simply.

Dean suddenly felt uncomfortable with himself. He couldn't stand sitting still. He got up and walked to the empty fireplace. He could feel Castiel's eyes on him as he examined an old iron poker.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Is this you?"

Dean turned to see Castiel holding a picture frame. There was a circle of dust on the side table from where it had sat dormant for decades. The picture showed a young boy holding up a fishing line with a large bass on the end. He was glowing with pride.

Dean went numb again. It was a strangely calm feeling. He walked over to Castiel, took the picture out of his hands and placed it back on the table. His eyes were set.

Castiel stared at him. "Dean?"

"What, Cas?"

"Did something happen to you and Sam?" Castiel's brow furrowed.

Dean thought about the question for a while. Finally he walked back to the fireplace and said, "I told you, we hunted a wendigo.”

"But… you prayed for my help. Why?"

Dean didn't respond.

"You and Sam clearly handled it fine on your own. Why did you need me here?" Castiel sounded pensive.

Without the pain in Dean's arm, he could feel something else aching. Stinging. Trapping his body to the floorboards of the old cabin like a rock. Dean wished Castiel hadn't healed him. He felt shaky. He shouldn't have drank all the whiskey the night before.

"Dean."

"I told you."

"You told me you were hunting…" Castiel was starting to sound annoyed now, but Dean cut him off.

"...a wendigo." Dean turned to look at Cas. He knew he'd have to do it eventually. Dean watched as Castiel's annoyance turned to concern. Dean must have looked as exhausted as he felt.

Dean sighed and knelt down at the fireplace. He took some wood they'd collected earlier and began making a fire.

"We hunted a Wendigo, Cas. Fifteen years ago. It got away. So we came back here to finish the job," Dean said. His voice was gruff and worn. He could feel Castiel squinting at him.

"What happened?"

There was no point feigning ignorance. Dean balled up some newspaper and began stuffing it under the wood before continuing. "Dad took us here when we were kids," he explained. "Sam had been hunting for about a year, and I think the thrill had worn off. He didn't want to come. It pissed my dad off so much,” Dean smiled. “Sam, he… he was a natural." Dean paused to grab more newspaper. "I wasn't. I followed my dad's every rule, and still… I had to work twice as hard as Sam. So dad said, 'fine, stay here and pout' and he took me out into the woods, alone. Now I was pissed at Sam, too.” Dean struck a match slid it under the wood. “He was just… so different from dad and I. Without even trying. You know dad, he… he never disciplined Sam like he did me." For a moment it looked like Dean hadn’t meant to say it. He bent down and blew on the flames, causing smoke to rise in serpentine spirals between the logs. He kept fiddling with it until the papers were in flames. "So Dad and I went hunting the wendigo."

"But… you didn't find it?" Castiel asked carefully. He assumed a single wendigo wouldn't be able to escape two hunters, especially not John Winchester and his son.

Dean watched the embers slowly eat the newspapers, reflecting gold in his eyes. It was cold in the cabin. Dean could feel it on his arms and face, on his frostbitten nose and ears, but it felt like someone else’s body, and the warmth growing in front of him provided no relief.

"No, we found it." Dean said, then added, "I found it."

Dean could hear a silent question hanging in the air, but Castiel didn't say anything.

"The missing campers were there,” Dean said quietly, “Well, half of them, anyway. All dead, except one. The wendigo was eating her."

For a moment, only the sound of the crackling wood filled the cabin. Dean was inexpressibly grateful for the silence.

"She was still alive. She was just lying there… gurgling… staring at me. And I…" Dean watched the flames consume the last of the old newspaper—an article about a missing blonde haired girl. "She died like that. Staring at me. I had the flare gun, but I didn't…" Dean stopped.

Castiel looked at him. Dean was outlined by the glow of the fire, his face hidden in shadow. After a long silence, Dean spoke again. His voice was shaky—Castiel had never heard a more terrible sound.

"I froze," he said simply, "and the wendigo got away. God, dad was pissed." He gave a wounded laugh. "He came running and saw me standing there. I'd never seen him so mad."

Castiel frowned. "But you were just a child. Surely he didn't blame you."

"Oh, he blamed me. I let the thing go, Cas," Dean explained, but the certainty in his voice was hollow. He stared into the flames, absentmindedly rubbing his healed arm. "We burned the campers, or what was left of them. The girl, too. And when we got home," Dean smiled darkly, "Dad, he… he whooped my ass." He tried to laugh again but the sound came out like a cough. He cleared his throat and closed his eyes, letting the orange light of the flames envelop him.

"He beat you?"

Dean nodded. "Yup. Worst one of my life. I couldn't aim a gun for a week."

"Does Sam know?" Castiel asked quietly.

Dean sighed. "Yeah. I mean, he was in the next room. He knew. Dad never laid a hand on Sammy, but…" Dean trailed off. He wiped his eyes with his palm. "It got better after that. Dad didn't… I mean, he found other ways of dealing with us." When Dean looked at Castiel, Castiel looked upset, hurt even. Dean thought he knew why. Dean got to his feet at last and brushed himself off. "The John you met, or watched, I guess, that wasn't my dad. The John who was destined to marry my mom, that wasn't my dad."

For some reason, it was these words that made Dean unable to go on. He shut his eyes, willing himself to keep steady. He would have given all the whiskey in the world to keep it together, but half of him wanted to stick his arm into the fire again and burn off the memory—burn off his fate, his curse.

It took a few minutes for Dean to collect himself, but finally he wiped his eyes and moved back to the picture frame on the side table. He picked it up. Etched on the back was a date some thirty years earlier. Castiel watched him sadly.

"This was the John you knew,” Dean told him. “The John he was supposed to be."

Dean was suddenly filled with the desire to throw the picture across the room. He wanted to know that satisfaction. To destroy it. To punish it. Instead he put the picture face down in the dust.

Despite everything that had happened at the hands of his father, the thought of John gave him strength enough to look at Castiel. Or maybe he just wanted to punish himself further. Either way, when his hazy green eyes met Castiel's blue seas, Castiel reached up and touched Dean's arm. Castiel hadn’t moved since Dean started talking. He’d barely said a word. But it seemed that Castiel was finally unable to stand by while Dean suffered alone.

Dean knew what about to happen seconds before Castiel touched him, but he didn't do anything to stop it. Castiel's warm, surprisingly gentle grip found Dean's arm, and Dean felt hot tears slide past his eyelashes, burning his frostbitten cheeks.

"You know…" Dean said, his voice choked, "The first thought I had when that girl looked at me? I was grateful.” He tried to laugh. “Grateful that Sam stayed behind. That I was the one who found the wendigo." Dean wiped his eyes with his free hand. He didn't know why he was still talking. Distantly he heard Castiel get up. "I was grateful that it was happening to me, and not Sam."

Dean looked at Castiel and, without a word, Castiel pulled him into his arms. Dean wanted to run, to fight, to do anything but stand there and sink into Castiel's embrace, but he couldn't move. He lowered his face into Castiel's shoulder and felt a warmth that no flames could provide. It pushed the cold off his skin, purging him of sin and putting him back in his body. He put his shaking arms around Castiel. For a moment, he felt no pain. His tears flowed freely but there was no shame. Dean knew what it meant, and he felt sick with himself. He wiped his eyes once more and pulled away.

"Cas… I can't," he said. He didn't expect Castiel to understand. He expected Castiel to look hurt. He expected to feel the guilt and shame he knew he deserved.

But Castiel did understand. He looked at Dean, still standing much too close to him, and asked, "Why not?"

Dean stared at him, unsure what to say even though he knew the answer. It was because he, too, was a wendigo, masquerading as the human being it once was. Consuming others to stay alive, letting people die just to hold onto that cursed life—Dean was no different. He knew his only relief, his only redemption, his fate, would be that of fire and brimstone.

At last, Dean rasped, "Because you deserve better."

Castiel looked so tired and incredulous that it reminded Dean of Sam. "Dean," he said firmly, "I don't want better. And neither should you."

Dean wanted to sink back into Castiel's warmth, even if it felt like condemning Castiel to his own fiery curse.

"Dean."

Dean looked at him and his mind went blank. It was bliss. He knew it was selfish, it was wrong, but he'd never wanted anything so badly in his life. He felt Castiel’s hand move down his arm. He felt Castiel’s fingers intertwine with his. Castiel was so close his nose could have brushed against Dean’s.

“If you and Sam have taught me anything,” Castiel whispered, “it’s that people don’t often get what they deserve. You didn’t deserve any of that. You don’t deserve the fate you’ve been given.” Castiel’s eyes were like a whirlpool, capturing Dean’s and not letting them go. “You deserve to be happy,” Castiel said firmly. “So… if you tell me what you want, I’ll give that to you. I want… I want you to be happy.”

Castiel’s gaze felt like an endless ocean, washing over Dean. After what seemed like a lifetime of silence, Dean nodded. He gripped Castiel’s hand and leaned against him, taking comfort in their closeness. "Okay."

Castiel looked relieved, and Dean knew that he understood that answer when he felt Castiel take him by the hand. Dean was grateful he didn’t have to say more. Together they sat on the couch, the glow of the flames dancing over them, and Castiel took Dean into his arms. Dean was surprised at how readily he succumbed to it. It was like coming home. He leaned into Castiel and closed his eyes. Castiel kissed Dean's head, and Dean felt an inhuman warmth flood him. He didn't think he'd ever known anything like it. It was like basking in a warm sea, each wave another beat of Castiel’s heart.

Dean didn't remember falling asleep, but when he woke up he thought he was dead. He was enveloped in such warmth and comfort that he couldn't possibly be alive. There was no pain, only the heavenly smell of Castiel’s familiar musk and the feeling of his body breathing gently against Dean’s. Surely this couldn’t be Earth—This couldn’t be a place where demons and monsters roamed and where Dean hunted them.

It was only the realization that they were covered in a blanket, and that neither of them had gotten up to get a blanket, that told Dean he had to still be alive. Sure enough, as he came to he heard Sam packing up the Impala outside.

It was light out and the fire had burned itself to embers, glowing faintly through the lumps of blackened wood like a burnt corpse.

Dean and Castiel had slept through the night, far longer than a few hours, yet Sam hadn't woken them. He’d put a blanket over them. It was a musty, old blanket with holes, but he knew it was the best Sam could find.

Dean felt Castiel stir. Castiel opened his bleary eyes to look at him, and Dean felt himself smile. He didn’t feel like speaking yet, so he kissed Castiel's cheek. Castiel didn't move away or say anything, but Dean felt Castiel smile. They lay like that, cheek to cheek, both awake but not speaking, just laying in each other’s arms.

The front door opened and Sam came inside from the cold. There was no mad scramble to get up, but Dean felt himself go red in the face despite the fire being out.

"Hey," Sam greeted them, his voice gentle and earthly. "I got everything packed up so… whenever you're ready."

Dean could tell Sam was eager to leave the cabin, but suddenly Dean didn't feel the same way.

Dean looked over at Sam. "Thanks, Sammy."

Sam paused, taken aback. Dean hadn't called him that in a while. Sam looked between Dean and Castiel's tousled heads and smiled, and Dean knew he was forgiven. Hell, if Sam was still with him, ready to kill wendigos and fight their fate, maybe Castiel would be alright, too.

Sam walked back outside to let Dean and Castiel get ready to leave. It was cold in the cabin without the fire, but Castiel was like a beacon of warmth, always a few inches from Dean. They didn’t speak much, but the silence was nice, Dean thought.

When Dean was ready to go, he asked, “Are you going to…”

“‘Poof away’?” Castiel smiled slightly.

Dean smiled back.

“Do you want me to?”

Dean’s smile softened. “No.”

Castiel stepped closer to Dean, looking relieved again. “Then I won’t.”

Dean knew Castiel would have been happy to just stand close to Dean forever, but Dean suddenly found himself wanting more. He leaned in and, when Castiel didn’t back away, when they were so close they could taste each others’ breath, Dean kissed him.

Dean wouldn’t have believed Castiel’s lips could be so soft. Castiel kissed him back, feeling Dean’s lips gently, curiously, and Dean felt all of his fears and insecurities wash away. The cabin was suddenly warm again and Dean’s mind drifted pleasantly into space.

It was over all too soon, but neither were in any rush to go anywhere. Dean hovered over Castiel’s lips, breathing in his scent.

Finally, Dean smiled. “There’s room in the Impala. If your wings are tired, this is.”

Castiel smiled back. “They are. Very tired.”

Dean chuckled softly. He put his arm on Castiel’s back and walked out of the cabin with him. The winter’s day was bright and tranquil. The woods were free of wendigos and more beautiful than Dean had ever realized. His boots crunched over wet, melting snow, burying the ash and rubble from many decades ago.

#pbexchangemasquerade #profound bond #supernatural #Destiel #fanfiction #fanfic #archive of our own #My writing #sarasaurusrex

5 notes · View notes

kbstories · 6 years

Text

Uhhh so... RDR2, huh? I’m very excited about Charles. Here’s a fic.

Only Lost The Night

Tags: Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith, Hurt/Comfort, Aftermath of Violence, Choking, Cowboys being SOFT

Minor spoilers for Chapter 3, specifically the mission “Magicians for Sport”.

>>Read on AO3

>>Second Chapter

Arthur Morgan is no stranger to sudden, violent escalation.

One moment, you're quietly observing golden beams of light spill over the far horizon as the sun rises from her slumber; the next, you're pushing your horse to the limit, chasing your own shadow across the plains, with gun fire behind and a long run ahead. It turns out shit creek is very much a real place – and whoever holds the universe's reins loves to send Arthur up all the way, no paddle, not even a damn boat in sight.

Which is why, when rough hands tear him off his saddle and his neck burns under the coarse scrape of a rope, he's not exactly shocked. Surprised, yes – even after the week he's had, it'd take a stone-cold, dead heart for it not to skip a beat or three – and yet.

Yet, Arthur clings to the ever-tightening noose, to that crucial inch of space he pried free with bruising fingers and the fractions of a breath he can draw, blinks past the black spots in his vision and catches sight of worn blue–

Suddenly, the sounds of a world gone dim return in an overwhelming rush, and Arthur holds his throat, gulps in precious air through the mix of pain and hazy panic clouding his brain.

“Arthur? Hey, hey, easy. It's me.”

Charles, Arthur recognizes, deliriously; without conscious thought, his body slumps, almost limp in the grip of strong, steady hands and a touch grown so familiar over the past months.

“That's it, breathe. You with me?”

“Yeah”, he says– wants to say, but the word rattles between his lungs and his mouth and loses its vowels. Fuck, his neck hurts. Still: Arthur meets the calm steel in Charles' gaze, and the ghost of a smile on the other's lips sets Arthur's rabbiting heart at ease more than he cares to admit.

It seems like mere moments later that Charles slides his arms under Arthur's and pulls – “Come on, up you go. Trelawny's waiting” – and Arthur sways, near-drunk with vertigo. He swallows in a failed attempt to wet his scratchy throat.

“'m up, 'm up.”

Once his legs are somewhat firm and less akin to a young colt's, Arthur kicks his downed assailant in the face, taking some satisfaction in the dry snap of bones under his boot. “Fucker got m'good”, he spits. The hot flare of anger in his stomach momentarily distracts him from his woozy mind.

Behind him, Charles is dusting off a hat against his thigh. Holding it out to Arthur with a mumbled “here”, he shrugs. “Happens to the best of us. I'm just glad I got to you in time.”

A little smug, and touched by fondness. Arthur hums a grateful tune and pulls the brim of his newly-regained hat lower, feeling less vulnerable in its shadow.

He should've realized, then and there, that a gesture of kindness is like pulling a trigger – it shifts the course of fate just so, and things will never be the same again.

Dying embers flutter into sparks at the touch of brittle wood. Arthur plants his ass on a pair of folded shirts and scoots as close as he dares to the meager flame flickering to life in the dark.

Around him, the camp breathes in loud snores and the snorts of grazing horses, falling into cadence with the chirp chirp of the first stubborn crickets – a comforting song reaching decades back and, usually, it guides Arthur back to sleep better than any lullaby he knows.

Usually, his neck doesn't hurt like a motherfucker, and things as basic as eating and drinking and breathing come easy. Usually.

With the tip of his boot, he pushes the log further into the smoldering coals, silently willing it to catch properly. Even this far south, the winter's chill still clings to the early morning hours. “Fuck off”, he grumbles quietly, and squints up at the moon as if she's to blame for any of this.

He didn't think of putting on a jacket, or even bringing his sorry excuse of a blanket. Arthur sighs, deeply.

“Might want to consider lightening up a little. You're starting to look more miserable than Swanson.”

A warm weight lands on Arthur's lap. Sheepskin, fleece intact and clean. Arthur huffs, “Don't think that's possible”, and ignores the sting in his throat. He draws the pelt around his shoulders, nodding once at the outline of Charles in the faint firelight.

“Thanks.”

“That's more like it.”

“Also, bite me.”

“You're welcome.”

Arthur meets Charles' raised eyebrow with a small smirk and pats the tree stump beside him. While he gets comfortable, Arthur throws another scrap of wood into the fire, and watches it glow bright with heat for a while. Finally, the tell-tale crackling gains strength, and smoke starts rising in an uneven haze. Arthur tries not to cough, fails, grimaces as it pulls at the sore muscles of his neck.

"This whole gettin' choked to death business? 's really no fun–"

The brush of careful fingers against his jaw is unexpected and anticipated at the same time, like the logical solution to a puzzle left unsolved for too long. Before he's fully aware of it, Arthur trails off, holding his breath, holding utterly still to stop himself from leaning into it.

Charles draws back a little. He rumbles, “Let me see?”, voice low. Hesitant, for the first time since they've met.

Arthur opens his mouth, 's not that bad, the words are on his tongue. He clenches his jaw shut, tilts his head back, and hopes the dark will hide how fast his pulse is going.

Charles' touch is feather-light, barely putting pressure on the bruised and swollen mess that is his throat. Arthur tenses regardless, the burst of pain and sudden realization of oh fuck, this is how I die too fresh on his mind. Out of the corner of his eye, he glances at Charles' deepening frown.

“Hurts?”

“Not... Earlier, yeah. Been better. 's okay now.”

“Earlier?”

Charles leans closer, thumb moving below his adam's apple. Arthur's breaths grow shallower, physically forcing himself not to swallow. “Uh”, he tries to round up his scattering thoughts. “Tried to eat. Bad idea.”

“Mh.” The searching prodding smooths out to gentle strokes, up and down the delicate skin over his pulse point. Arthur's eyes go half-lidded, his hands limp in his lap. “Not the worst you've had, though.”

There it is again, that wry fondness that Arthur has started, to crave in the lost hours of the night when his tent feels too cold and his cot too empty. Something in the back of his mind is trying to remind him why indulging... this – whatever simmers between them, has been simmering since the very beginning – is not good.

It's getting harder and harder to pay attention to it, though.

Arthur hums, a soft sound just between them; he reaches for Charles' hand, flattening the other's palm against his neck, and the quiet thrum of pain lingering there relents to his warmth.

"Maybe”, Arthur admits, a hopeful whisper in the dark.

>>Read on AO3

#rdr2 #red dead redemption #arthur morgan #charles smith #charthur #y'all i'm hooked #dunno yet if i'll write more hhh i'm like 30% thru the game #i just... wanted to share some love for charles because damn #we stan one boy #my stuff #rdr fanfiction #RDR

45 notes · View notes

lhugbereth · 6 years

Text

Cyborg Promptio teaser

So I managed to write some intro for this tonight, but didn’t quite get to the smut. Damn plot, interfering with my porn.... Anyway, before I go pass out (I’m drunk and it’s 1am, I have work in the morning and also my ears are ringing??), I figured I should post what I finished.

Tagging @lunatic-charm @cardigan-carm and @sayura21 who seemed interested :)

(Under the cut!)

The apartment door creaked on its hinges, splintered, and dropped to the floor, kicking up dust from the debris that had, until a moment ago, been a functioning wall. Now it was little more than ruins, half of the plaster blasted away in an explosion that had taken out much of the hallway as well. Shouts rang out, panic in the midst of the sudden attack, but they were distant, removed; backdrop for the real horror, which was standing amidst the rubble like a hulking, metallic beast.

Half-man, half-machine.

From under thick, untamed eyebrows, the figure’s gaze pierced through the smoke. His left eye whirred, the only sound in the room above the chaos of the building, and glowed red-orange as it scanned for signs of life.

There - huddled under the cables and wires of a computer desk, hands trembling around the handle of a cheap revolver - was his target.

The figure stepped forward. Heavy boots crushed wood and drywall alike, echoing the hum of metal limbs in motion, until he was close enough to close his fist around the barrel of the gun.

In a thrumming voice, he said he’d come from the future to save humanity from extinction.

And that’s when Prompto knew things were going to get weird.

---------

He’s been sleeping in the back of the stolen car for three weeks now. It wouldn’t be so bad, Prompto thinks, if he’d also thought to steal a blanket, a pillow, and maybe some cushions to cover up the springs poking through the seat under his butt.

Oh, and maybe a roof. That’d certainly be an improvement over the gaping hole overhead where Gladio had ripped theirs off. Sure, at the time (when those assholes with the giant guns had been chasing them) it had seemed like a fine idea. And honestly, watching a cyborg super soldier tear apart a car with his bare hands had...done things to Prompto. Weird things.

But now, without the roof, there’s nothing to keep out the chill after the sun goes down.

To be fair, it’s not all Gladio’s fault. Even if he hadn’t shown up out of the blue, blasted off half of Prompto’s apartment, and threatened to kill him for the sake of the future, things would have turned out just as crummy. The problem, of course, is that his intel had been wrong - all of the intel was wrong - because Prompto hadn’t done a damn thing.

But whoever had, they’d done a bang-up job of it.

The day Gladio arrived was the day it started. First, one by one, the social media sites went down. Then the telecom. Then the government databases, falling like dominos to a unknown, unnamed hacker. World leaders were quick to blame each other. Tempers flared and shots were fired, as panic erupted among the people. No banks, no records, no knowing what the hell was going on; the very technology civilization had been built on collapsed overnight.

Of course, Gladio had seen it coming. Knew exactly how it would play out, hour by hour, and where to take Prompto that they might survive the worst of it. That’s how they ended up on the run, in a stolen car far from Insomnia, while the rest of the world fell into anarchy. While civilians killed each other and bombs flew; while buildings toppled and the wars began.

Then, in the midst of it all, one name had appeared, scrawled in a mix of oil and blood across the facade of the fallen Citadel: Argentum.

Prompto had done nothing. He was only a self-taught hacker with a habit of exposing politicians’ dirty secrets - not a mastermind, and certainly not a killer. But there was his name, spelled out for all to see, all to blame, and suddenly the only one on his side was the cyborg who’d come to stop him in the first place.

Gladio had...apologized. Profusely.

He’s also saved his life on at least six different occasions by now, so Prompto tries not to hold the whole apartment-blasting, death-threatening, crazy-future-robot nonsense against him. To err is human, after all, and Gladio (as far as he can tell) is at least a third flesh and blood. Mostly his right side, where from the shoulder down to his hip he’s all muscle, sinew, and bronzed, tattooed skin.

In contrast, his left side looks like a computer got into a fight with a scrap heap: stiff metal plates, interlocking and individually controlled, move over an underlayer of wires, cords, gears and sockets. Prompto isn’t sure how deep the skeletal frame beneath runs, but wherever metal meets skin there are painful-looking scars. Jagged, raised. Almost as if his body had been torn apart and welded back together again, machines replacing him piece by missing piece.

It’s the one thing Prompto has yet to ask him about. He isn’t sure he’s ready for the answer.

After a while longer, the springs digging into his back finally get the better of him, and Prompto pushes up and off the worn leather seat. Stars glitter overhead as he slides out of the car (there’s no door on the right side, either - same reason, different fight) and pads his way barefoot over the hard, dusty ground. Over to the form of Gladio sitting, unmoving, with his legs swung over the side of the ledge, gaze lost somewhere in the haze of light on the distant horizon.

Insomnia. His hometown, too, or at least what’s left of it by then.

“Can’t sleep, big guy?”

Offering a smile, Prompto settles down on the ground next to him and folds his legs under his rear. It’s uncomfortable, he thinks, but at least it’s warmer than the alternative. Though not quite as warm as the flesh-and-blood arm that moves automatically to envelop him, or the tug of emotion in the corner of Gladio’s mouth before he speaks.

“Not for about eighty years now, actually. You, on the other hand….“ He turns, favoring Prompto with both his human and his mechanical eye. “You should be resting. It’s late.”

“I got cold,” the blond admits with a shrug. It’s not exactly a lie, but he still doesn’t know how to explain anxiety to a cyborg. “Figured you might want some company, something to talk about. It’s gotta get boring just staring at nothing all night.”

Gladio shakes his head as that arm around him tucks in, pulls him closer into welcoming warmth. “This isn’t nothing, Prom, not to me. In my time, all of this -” he explains, sweeping his metal hand out over the dark, dusty plains of Leide between them and the Crown City. “Just ruins. There’s no beauty left, nothing to remember the world before the Fall. I’m trying to enjoy it now while it still lasts.”

#promptio #ffxv #final fantasy xv #myfic #cyborg au #they're hot af fight me #this needs a real title #maybe tomorrow #also #it's kind of implied that they're already fucking #or at least have a mutual thing going on #prompto is totally hot for cyberdude #who can blame him #<3

60 notes · View notes

whitewitchdani · 6 years

Text

Infinitely Different: Chapter 6

Read Chapter 5 Here

Word Count: 1,782

Pairing: Winchester!Sister Reader x ???

Warnings: angst, language, descriptions of violence and injury

A/N: Reader... what did you get yourself into? (: Chapter 6 is here! I hope you guys enjoy and as always feedback is welcome and let me know if you’d like to be tagged.

Infinitely Different Masterlist

You ended up sleeping well into the afternoon. Who knew a real bed could make such a difference? As it was closing in on time to begin the hunt, you made your way out to the arsenal in the trunk of your car. It was nothing compared to the one in the Impala, but it worked for just you. As you were rummaging around inside, you felt a presence behind you. You reached for your gun intending to attack until,

“Damn, I know you described this to me but you really do have an arsenal back here.” Stefan said with a laugh.

You dropped your gun and spun around, hitting Stefan in the chest, “Dammit Stefan! Don’t sneak up on me like that, I almost ventilated your undead ass.”

Stefan laughed, “While that wouldn’t have actually done any damage, I’m glad you didn’t shoot me. It still smarts a little. What are you doing?”

“Gathering stuff for the hunt. Flare gun, flares, my gun, extra rounds. While a gun doesn’t really do any damage, just like you it still hurts and will slow them down a little. Has Damon calmed down from last night at all?” you asked, stuffing everything into your duffle and slamming the trunk shut.

“He’s currently nursing a bourbon in the library, so I’m gonna say not really.”

“He’s completely overreacting. I’ve been a hunter all my life; this isn’t my first rodeo. I’ll go talk to him, maybe calm him down before I leave.”

“Do you really think you’re going to be able to do that?”

“Probably not but I have to try because if my brothers show up while Damon’s pissed, I’m coming home to someone’s body on the floor and I’d really like to avoid that.”

Stefan let out a small laugh at that but also gave a small nod, as it was most likely the truth. “Come on, I’ll take you to my brother.”

He slung an arm around your shoulder and walked you back into the boarding house and towards the library. There you found Damon sitting near the fireplace, watching a fire crackle with bourbon in hand.

“If you came here to talk, save it. My mind has not changed. You going out there alone is still stupid.”

You sighed and made your way over, sitting next to him on the couch. “Damon, I never said it wasn’t stupid. I know it is. Hell, half of the things we do as hunters are stupid but its what we signed up for when we chose this life. I’ve done this before and I’m going to be okay. The only thing that will cause me to not be okay is if someone is out there with me and causes my focus to not be 100% on that Wendigo. That will get me and whoever else killed.”

Damon clenched his jaw and swirled the bourbon in his glass, refusing to look at you. “I’m a vampire, Y/N. Unless that thing carries a wooden stake or has the wherewithal to rip out my heart, I’ll be fine. I should go with you, you need backup.”

You stood from the couch and began to pace in front of it. “Damon, it doesn’t matter that you’re immortal. The only people I could take out there and not worry about would be my brothers, but they aren’t here and probably won’t be. I’m going out there alone and that’s final. I don’t understand why you’re being so difficult about this; you’ve never fought me this hard about a case before. I mean, I was here for two years and took several cases but you’ve never –”

Damon stood suddenly from the couch and sped to be face to face with you, “THAT’S BECAUSE I DIDN’T LOVE YOU BEFORE!” He launched the tumbler at the wall, sending tiny shards of glass across the floor.

You flinched as the glass shattered but kept your gaze on Damon. You knew your mouth was just hanging open in shock, but you couldn’t find any words to fit what you were feeling. You both just stared at each other for a moment until Stefan cleared his throat, reminding both of you he was still in the room.

“I know this is really bad timing, but it’s getting late. If you’re going to go Y/N, you need to go now.”

You sighed. You needed to talk to Damon, but the hunt took priority; people were dying. You grabbed his hand, “I have to go, Damon. I’m sorry. Save me a drink for when I get this son of a bitch.” You smirked and gave his hand a squeeze before dropping it and following Stefan out of the library.

“What do I do, Stefan?”

“I’m not sure, I did not see that coming. But please don’t die on this hunt. It would devastate him and I’d kinda miss you too.” He said with a smirk.

You rolled your eyes and shrugged on your green army jacket over your flannel and turned to leave. As you opened the door, you turned back to the younger Salvatore with a sigh, “I don’t have an answer for him Stefan.”

He walked forward and enveloped you in a hug, “Don’t focus on that right now. Just focus on the hunt and coming home, Y/N. Just make sure to come back to us.”

A Few Hours Later

Sam shook his head. Dean had been grumbling the entire time they had been in Virginia about Y/N and Mystic Falls and now that they had finally entered the town it had gotten even worse.

“Dean would you stop? I know you aren’t thrilled to be here but we’re here to help Y/N alright? Now I think you take this next turn.”

Dean turned the Impala down the path that lead to the Salvatore Boarding House. When the house came into view, Sam let out a low whistle. “This is where she lived for two years? No wonder she likes it here so much.”

After the Impala was parked, they made their way up the driveway, Dean pausing to admire the two classic cars: a 69 Chevy Camaro and a Porsche 356B. “Who the hell are these people? These cars alone cost hundreds of thousands of dollars, plus this house?”

“I don’t know Dean, she never got to tell us remember?” he shot at his brother.

Dean glared at Sam and followed him to the front door. They looked at each other before Sam raised a fist to knock. Before his fist made contact, the door swung open to reveal a young blonde man.

“Can I help you?”

Dean cleared his throat, “Yeah, we’re looking for our sister Y/N. Is she here?”

A look of recognition flickered across the man’s face. “You must be Sam and Dean. Please come in.” He stepped aside and allowed the brothers to enter the house. They took in the massive house around them. Y/N sure left out a lot. “Um, come with me to the parlor. I think we should talk.”

“No, not til you tell us where Y/N is. She said she’d be here now where is she?” Dean said gruffly.

“She isn’t here. If you come with me I can explain more.”

Dean went to protest but was cut off with a look from Sam who then followed the man. As they entered the parlor, they saw two other men and three women. Everyone’s conversations halted as they entered.

“Guys this is Sam and Dean, Y/N’s brothers.”

A blonde got up from her place on the couch and moved to the brothers. She shook Dean’s hand first and then Sam’s. “Hi, I’m Caroline. I’ve heard a lot about you both, it’s nice to finally meet you in person. I’m assuming you don’t know who anyone is?” The brothers shook their heads. “Well like I said I’m Caroline; the guy who walked you in is Stefan and the dark haired broody guy over there is his brother Damon, this is their house; the guy on the couch is Alaric, we just call him Ric; and then the girls are Elena and Bonnie.”

“Thanks for the roll call sweetheart but someone needs to tell us where our sister is or things are gonna get ugly.” Sam elbowed his brother and muttered Dean under his breath.

“She’s not here, pretty boy. Took off a few hours ago to frolic through the woods and kill monsters,” said Damon as he downed his newly poured bourbon and immediately poured another one.

Dean’s jaw clenched and his face turned a bit red. To say he was furious was an understatement; you called them for help but went after the Wendigo alone anyway?

“Look I know you’re both probably pissed, but another camper went missing last night. Y/N said she couldn’t wait any longer and she didn’t know if you were coming or not. She said if she had any chance of saving any of those campers she had to go tonight.” Elena pointed out.

Sam sighed, “Well she was right. It’s what we would’ve done. It’s too dark for us to go after her to try and help now. She’s on her own.”

You were running through the woods clutching your abdomen. How far had you ran? Where even were you? It didn’t matter; you could hear the Wendigo behind you. Just keep running. You were getting so tired, running and blood loss was not a combo you’d recommend.

You only had one flare left. Fuck it; you wouldn’t make it if you kept running. You stood behind a tree and waited. The Wendigo began to creep closer to where you were hiding. Once he was close enough, you jumped from your place behind the tree and fired.

You hit him! But not before he had got another swipe in, this time down your right arm. You cried out and fell to the ground as the creature burned to ash. You managed to pull yourself up and hobble farther through the woods. You had to find someone or you would die here in the woods of Mystic Falls, and you didn’t want to give Damon, Dean, or the damn monster the satisfaction.

You made it a ways before your vision began to darken. You stopped to lean against a tree, blood loss trying to pull you under. No! No, no, no, you hadn’t found anyone yet! Your body didn’t listen as your adrenaline finally wore off and you fell to the ground. In your semi-conscious state you thought you heard footsteps. If only. You finally lost your fight against the black spots in your vision as you succumbed to the darkness.

Read Chapter 7 Here

Tag List:

@lovesamwinchester

@winchesterxtwo

@assass-is-here

@rosethesupernaturalhunter

@captainam-erika-trash

212 notes · View notes

greekowl87 · 6 years

Text

Fic: False Flags 8/13

(1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) | AO3

First off, a warning, NSFW some smut is at the end.

And, as always, thanks to @mulders-boyish-enthousiasm and @scully-loves-ruthie . Tagging @today-in-fic . P.S. I have insomnia so I can’t thing of anything else to do but post this early. Cheers.

Holiday Inn at the Airport Norfolk, Virginia December 17, 1998

Scully sat against the headboard quietly with her knees pulled defensively to her chest. Resting her chin on the top her of knees, she watched Mulder in silence as he sat on the edge of the bed, unsure of how to proceed or even treat with Scully after her latest outburst and nightmare. She had quieted, grown control of her emotions, and with that, the walls of the impermeable Fort Scully went up as well.

“Scully, you have to say something eventually. This silence is killing me here.”

She looked at him differently now. Her blue eyes were heavier, older, but he felt a warmth come over him that he did not know how to describe like he belonged to her and he knew it. But what was more, she looked like she had seen a ghost, or did not know what to do with him. He felt his emotions raging within him and he did not know what to do.

“You watched me die,” she whispered finally.

“When,” he asked, shifting uneasily on the bed. “The cancer…”

“No. Not the cancer. Not my abduction. Someone shot me in the back of the head.” She pointed to the base of her skull. “They forced you to watch me die, to be executed. You never broke your gaze with me.”

“Scully.”

“You told me that you loved me and that you always would, no matter what.”

“Scully.” His chest was tight and he almost did indulge in him. “Tell me what you are talking about.”

“Mulder, the dreams, everything just sort of snapped into place when I saw the latest victim today.”

“What dreams. You want to tell me?”

“We knew each other, we’ve always known each other. This lifetime, others.” She waved her hand uselessly. “I can’t explain it. I have no proof except for what I feel and what I’ve seen.”

He was quiet, watching her thoughtfully. She shifted uneasily under his intense, detached gazed he reserved for examining an x-file or profiling. She tried to search his face for any clue to what he was feeling. “You think I’m crazy,” she determined. Her shoulder sagged under some unknown weight. “You think that I’m imagining it.”

“I haven’t said anything, Scully.”

“You don’t have to. Your look says it all. You think I’m crazy. Maybe I should have never said anything in the first place.” She licked her lips and lowered her gaze. Mulder was unused to seeing her like this…so vulnerable suddenly and their roles switched; her the believer and him the skeptic. “I’ll call Kersh in the morning and asked to be removed from the case. Maybe you and Diana can track down Buckley.”

“Why would you do that,” he asked.

“I’m a liability,” she shrugged. Her mind could not stop replaying the memory of him watching her be shot. Witnessing her execution. She was beginning to recall the dreams in more detail too. There were was still a lot to uncover, that she knew in her heart, but the dreams of a past life with Mulder were coming to fruition. Her and Mulder had lived together, side by side, during the Civil War as lovers. “Besides, I’m just holding you back.” The words she spoke were bitterly familiar and fresh. “I know you don’t need me to solve this. They need a profiler, not a pathologist. And if Buckley is claiming a past life as well, Diana could help you out.”

He stayed silent, watching her just as intensely. Her eyes flickered up at him before looking away again. Why was she acting like this? What had gotten into her? “I need my partner, Scully.”

“Your partner has likely gone crazy,” she dismissed. She continued to look away, fixating on the fake wood nightstand. “You don’t need that distraction.”

“I never said you were crazy.”

“Your look says otherwise, Mulder.” Scully sighed bitterly and shook her head. “Just forget I said anything or that I woke up screaming blooding murder. It’s probably for the best. I’m fine.”

Mulder sighed softly and moved towards the other end of the bed and she winced slightly at the closeness of him. He lifted his hand slightly, flexing his fingers, before gathering the courage to cup her cheek and turn her eyes to meet his. “You are not crazy. I believe you, Scully.”

She bit her lip, new, unknown emotions welling in her chest. She felt such a heavy pang in her heart, such love that had been cultivated through the ages but seemed new and foreign at the same time. Wordless communication flowed between them as she pressed her own hand against him in affirmation. She wanted to say something, anything but could not find her voice. Mulder gave a weak smile when he heard his cell phone ringing in the other room.

“I’ll be right back,” he said softly.

He got up and retreated back to her room. She could hear him on the phone speaking quietly. She herself, despite the chaos swimming her mind, felt some relief and anchored as well with Mulder’s belief in her. She closed her eyes and tried to take a deep breath, willing the new fragmented memories away into some little box so she could focus.

“Scully.” Her eyes bolted open and met his hazel ones. “We have another murder. Buckley killed again.”

“Where?”

“Hampton. Right across the river.”

Hampton? Why did Hampton seem so familiar?

… .

Hampton, Virginia December 17, 1998

The air coming off the bay and the James River was chilly. She tried to nestle herself into her black trench coat to ward off the cold as she walked the crime scene, looking for a clue to signs of a struggle. Mulder was already talking to the local detectives. She could she other FBI agents milling about gathering evidence with the police. She was secretly glad that Fowley was not here this morning with the ASAC. She did not know how much of that vulture grandma she could handle. Taking a deep breath, unsatisfied with her initial survey, she walked confidently towards the covered body, pulling out the latex gloves she keeps in her pocket. She knelt down, her nostrils flaring at the stench of fresh blood and gore. This was less than twelve hours old. Was Buckley close? Was he watching them was some sick satisfaction? She cast her own personal thoughts aside and went into doctor mode. She pulled back the sheet and put the back of her hand to her mouth to keep herself from losing the contents of her stomach. Scully was not one to be so easily intimidated or disgusted but the brutality of this…

“You okay,” Mulder whispered as he crouched next to her.

She managed a nod and gently touched the exploded brains across the asphalt. “He shot her from behind. At the base of the skull.”

“How can you tell?” As soon as the words left his lips, he instantly regretted them.

“Her head is blown clearly away with the brains splattered everywhere, Mulder.” She tapped the base of her skull behind her neck and lowered her voice. “He pressed the gun here, stood from behind and made her beg. He made her beg, Mulder.”

She jerked her hand back quickly and ripped off the latex gloves and stormed away. Mulder was behind her in two quick strikes. He grabbed her arm gently to steady her. “Scully? What is it?”

She swallowed, her mouth dry as cotton, as she tried to keep the contents of her stomach down. She kept looking at the gory scene, her mind mentally replaying the fragmented memory from earlier that morning. “Mulder, remember how I was telling you last night about the dream. You having to watch me die? I was shot the exact same way.”

The vulnerability in her voice. She was scared. He had only seen her like this a handful of times. She confessed it in a whisper, afraid someone would overhear it. He discretely squeezed her hand. “Maybe…maybe he is the other one? Franklin?”

Her eyes darted to him wildly and somehow, he seemed older as well. “How do you know that name?”

Running his hand uselessly through his hair, Mulder looked down at their feet and shook his head. “I just do. I don’t know. I can’t explain it.”

“Mulder,” she began, unsure.

“It involves us and him,” he whispered. He winced. “I think.”

“Do you remember anything? Are you remembering too?”

Mulder was quiet, staring at her, trying to recall something. He looked her dead in the eye. “Your eyes. I remember your eyes. I felt like I could fall into them forever. I was home.” The implications of what he had just said came flooding into her mind but Mulder stilled her wild thoughts. “But this isn’t the time or the place. We need to focus. Go do the autopsy. I’ll finish up here. We’ll talk about this later, okay?”

… .

Hampton, Virginia May 12, 1862

She remembered watching the flames from across the river. That was how bright the blaze was when the Confederate army burned Hampton the year before. Now, all there was was ruins. The brick buildings ghosts of themselves. She felt like a ghost herself. Scully pulled her knees to her chest and pulled Mulder’s jacket around her. She buried her face in the jacket, smelling his comforting scent and the wood smoke from the fire. She gazed further down from the ruined home they were staying in for the night. He was laughing and conversing among recently freed slaves as if it was the most natural thing in the world. She smiled and admired him for what he believed in. Everyone was equal. Sighed, she wearily glanced around her lone postion as she watched the occupying Union forces mill about the ragtag camp they now found themselves in consisting of Union soldiers, recently freed slaves, and civilian refugees.

Mulder was exchanging something. He introduced himself as William and gestured to her, his wife Katherine. He smiled and took to bowls from a young man before coming back to her. He smiled easily and she felt herself relax with his presence. “Well, rabbit stew for dinner. They’re heading towards Fort Monroe, hoping someone will take them up to New England. I told them we were heading towards Yorktown as refugees, hoping to make it up to Washington. The Union occupies the entire peninsula, which I guess can be a blessing. But no one is looking for us from what I could gather.”

He flopped beside her and smiled. Mulder held out the wooden bowl to her but Scully shook her head. She scooted over so that she sat between his legs and was able to wrap him around her like a second skin. Mulder smiled, kissed her shoulder and held the bowl between them. Her small deft hands held the bowl as he gently fed her before taking a few bites himself. “Comfortable,” he teased.

“I feel safe.”

He was silent and nodded. Resting his chin on her shoulder, he stared into the golden flames of the fire. His free arm snaked around her midsection, pulling her tight against him. She shivered feeling his presence behind her. “I’m sorry, Scully.”

“For what?”

“This.”

He nodded towards the burned ruins that surround them. She shook her head as he fed her a few bites of the soup before having some himself. “I’m not.”

“Why? Why aren’t you?”

“Why should I be?”

“Well,” he began slowly, his mind ruminating over putting his feelings into words. “This isn’t exactly easy living. We’re on the run, as fugitives…”

“See, there is where you wrong, first off. We are not fugitives.”

“We’re spies anymore now, well, we were. Now we’re refugees. But we aren’t fugitives. We ran for safety,” she whispered into his neck. She pulled his arms tightly around her. “It’s amazing we haven’t been caught.”

“Well, you are brilliant,” he sighed, watching the fire. “I think we are okay, will be okay. Scully, there is no one looking for us, right?” Mulder felt the need to keep repeating Scully’s words because maybe the more he repeated them, he would actually begin to believe. “You said it yourself that the captain is probably dead. You haven’t heard from him in months. We left without saying a word. Who could come looking for us?”

“Your outfit.”

“What? My uniform pants? Mmm. I doubt that. The fever they had with the oncoming armies…” His voice trailed off.

“So, what do we do?” she whispered.

“Well, since you are so worried, new names to begin with.”

“William and Katherine Healey,” she told him automatically. “We’ve already established that. If anyone asks about our rings, we had to give them away for safe passage, which isn’t necessarily untrue.”

He nodded, kissing her shoulder. “What is our story?”

“I could tutor. I know quite a bit. What about you? Schoolmaster? Rugged, handsome farmhand?”

“I always wanted to teach, but who knows,” he murmured. He sighed. “So we travel with new names. Where do we go from here?”

“I’d settle for Yorktown right now, at least for the summer. God only knows how long this offense is going to last and we’ll be safer with the Union occupation. I don’t know if we can make it to Richmond or how. We can stay there and figure things out.”

He nodded, rubbing her arms as she fed him some stew. “One day at a time, Scully.”

… .

Office of the Medical Examiner Hampton, Virginia December 17, 1998

I remember your eyes, he had told her, I felt like I could fall into forever. I was home.

She blinked, trying to break free of the suffocating thoughts. Scully felt like she was drowning in her past life battling for her present life currently. She was the same person, the same soul, that had experienced multiple lifetimes. It was not being a different person through different lives. She was still the same person, the same soul. As she scrubbed her hands in the utility sink, she closed her eyes briefly and summoned forth the new-old memories. They had become clearer over the past few hours as Scully became comfortable with the notion that maybe she lived in the nineteenth century. However, one thing was crystal clear, her relationship with Mulder.

“Oh, Mulder,” she mumbled to herself thoughtfully. She scrubbed the webbing between her fingers, scrubbing a bit more vigorously than she usually did till her hands and fingers were raw pink. “You were always there, weren’t you?”

Once her hands were thoroughly cleaned, she snapped on the latex and pushed open the door to the examining room. Her nostrils flared, catching the familiar scent of medical sterility and death, and eyed the covered body on the table in the corner of the room. She blinked.

Scully saw the dead bodies of soldiers, the scent of death lingering in the air, more than usual. She could hear cannon fire. She jumped as if someone had placed their hands on her shoulder. She let her eyes flutter shut.

“I can’t.”

“You saved me.”

Her eyes opened. She could still feel her breath on her neck, the weight of his hands on her shoulders. “Mulder…” she murmured.

“You called?”

She jumped and felt his arm come around her waist, rubbing the loose scrubs against her waist. She instinctively pushed against him to get away so he draped both arms around his waist, holding her in place. He nuzzled her neck uncharacteristically. “Mulder,” she repeated, saying his name more forcibly.

As if snapping out of a dream and immediately dropped his arms away from her waist and stared at her, like he did not recognize her. “Scully?”

“What just happened?” she asked.

“What do you mean?”

“You just put your arms around my waist.”

“I did?”

She nodded. “You did.”

“The man…” He gestured to the steel table that held the murder victim and the words fell from his lips. He lowered his hand. “I could have sworn.”

“Are you feeling okay, Mulder?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay,” he said, trying to convince himself more than Scully. “I came to tell you what the locals found.”

“Good news, I hope.”

He nodded. “Did I interrupt?”

“I haven’t started yet. What did they find?”

“Surveillance from a bank across the street. He was there at the scene of the murder. Probable cause.”

“Well, we both know he did it, Mulder. It’s just a matter of proving it.” She reached for the recorder and gazed at Mulder. “Are you going to watch me the entire time?”

He nodded wordlessly and looked around, seeing a metal stool in the corner. “Not exactly watch, just observe.” He gave a smile small and she only rolled her eyes and picked the recorder up. “Not a peep, Scully. Promise.”

“Sure, Sherlock.”

She sighed and looked at the time on the wall. “The date is December 17, I am beginning the external examination of…” she paused, looking at the bloodstained wallet. “Katherine Healey.”

Mulder’s eyes jumped up when he heard a tray of instruments going flying across the lithomulumn floor and when he looked up from his perch, he saw the bloodied wallet of the floor too and Scully grasping an empty table for balance. He went over without thinking, grasping her waist and pulling her back to her chest. The move almost seemed practiced and familiar. Scully felt her present self and newly awoken past self battling out for control and eventually the two merged. Scully recognized Mulder as her constant anchor and tore off the bloody gloves in disgust and turned into him.

Mulder was left awed as this seemingly uncharacteristic Scully thing to do. His Scully was strong and nothing could stop her but this Scully seemed crushed by the weight of centuries and did not know what t do. “Dana…” he called hesitantly. “Scully. Come back to me. Come back to the present.”

“That was our name when we traveled,” she whispered into him. “You went by William Healey.”

“Was your mother’s maiden name Healey?”

Her blue eyes, like glistening ice caps, caught him transfixed. “Not in this life.” She licked her chapped lips. “You believe, don’t you? Us? You remember too, don’t you? Mulder?”

“Pieces,” he whispered. “I don’t have an entire lifetime but I remember us. I remember you.”

“Which me?”

“The Civil War,” he replied. “We…we did something.”

“Spied.”

“We spied? Well, Scully. I can only imagine you in leather bloomers.”

Scully took off her latex gloves, smoothed his cheeks, and examined his deep hazel eyes, thumbing back the solid, warm skin beneath her fingertips. “You remember. Tell me you remember, Mulder. Please.”

“I remember us. I don’t remember a lot but I remember that night we…” he voice faded. “We could still have it in this life.”

Scully did not know what overcame her. Her 19th century self finally pushing her 20th century self into the arms of the man she had shared lifetimes with or just raw, overwhelming desire. “Mulder,” she breathed.

They never spoke about that last summer. He cupped her face like he had that summer and she closed her eyes as her thumbs gently stroked her cheeks. She felt her mind wandering, adrift in the sea. “Look at me, Scully.” Her eyes opened and focused on his forest eyes. She blinked, trying to focus on him. “I’m here, in this life and the last and I will not abandon you.”

“Abandon,” she murmured the word again, it carrying a heavier significance than she thought it would “You never did, not then, not now.”

He nodded. He pulled away but she grabbed his wrists gently and whispered, “I want that, in this life.”

“Nothing more sexier than flirting in a morgue. “He smiled, nodded, and gently kissed her lips softly. “I won’t be far, Scully. Go ahead and do the autopsy. I know you can.”

The silence was tense and there was an electric current flowing in between them that was more intense then she had felt before. Like it was years of being away from her family and finally coming home to him. He smiled slightly and she returned it. “I need to scrub my hands again.”

“I’ll grab us some coffee, okay? Do you want something in particular?”

She pursed her lips. “Surprise me,” she whispered in reply.

“You do every day.”

He gave her a warm, lingering smile as he left the autopsy bay so she could get to work. Scully gazed at her white sneakers and smiled to herself, a new warmth and certainty spreading through her and giving her enough courage to do the rest of the examination.

… .

Mulder exited the rental, carefully balancing two cups of coffee and a blueberry muffin for Scully when he saw the ASAC and Diana exiting another car at the opposite end of the parking lot. He quickened his pace to beat them to Scully so she would not be caught off guard. He had no doubt that his partner would be fine but with how jumpy she was, and if there were really two separate lifetimes now consciously residing in her, she needed to feel grounded. He slipped into the side exit, spying Scully washing her hands and then jotting down something in a notebook. He slid quickly into the same room as her and she looked up with a warm smile. “That was quick, Mulder.”

“Well, as much I would like to savor this, ASAC Benson and Diana are in toe,” he said softly.

She shrugged and gave a soft smile. “Why should that bother me?”

“What’s changed,” he asked softly.

She gazed at him and Mulder knew what had changed. “We belong to each other, Mulder and nothing will change that,” she whispered with certainty. She took the coffee from his hand and grasped it quickly. “I know that much at least.”

“Did you find anything, Scully?”

“Prints,” she said proudly. “I’ll know more once the lab work comes back and I’ll also be able to verify the cause of death, even though it is pretty obvious. But there was a print left at the base of the neck, from choking her. What do you want to bet that it matches up with Buckley?”

“What was that about prints, Agent Scully?” the ASAC voice boomed at the end of the hall.

“I found some on the body, sir,” she answered, taking a sip of the coffee that Mulder had brought her. “I’m having Quantico trace it, but odds are, it is Buckley’s. I’m also having toxicology screenings done to see if we are missing anything. The cause of death was pretty self evident, gun to the base of the skull, brains were blown out. I do not know anything about the caliber but it looks like.44 magnum.” She sipped her coffee again. “I found a sliver of a fragment, likely hollow point, but we won’t know anything until the results come back.”

“Excellent work, Agent Scully. Agent Mulder, did your canvassing of the crime scene undercover anything?”

“Bank security footage,” Mulder answered. “I’m asking the local pd to follow any leads. I amended my profile to help them if possible.”

“Sir,” Diana began, “I honestly do think this is an x-file. I have read his diary personally, I know there has to be something. If Agent Mulder and I could take a crack at it.”

Scully remained stonily silent and her blue eyes glanced at Mulder. Ball’s in your court now, she thought to herself. He glanced at Scully briefly and, for a moment, she thought he was going to agree with Fowley. “I do not have enough evidence to consider the thought. I was brought on as a profiler and I intend to stay as such,” he said. “I need to confer with Agent Scully on her findings.”

Diana glared at Mulder and the ASAC nodded approvingly. “I could not agree more, Mulder. Stay on it. Fowley, I need you to come with me and back to the field office. We need to get to work with the locals.”

“I’ll be there in moment, sir,” she replied coldly, staring at Mulder.

Scully sensed the change in the room and replied, resting her hand on his bicep, “I’m going to change, Mulder. I’ll be out by the car waiting.”

Scully’s motion did not go unnoticed by either Mulder or Diana. It was a clear sign of possession. He glanced at his partner and felt warm. In an instant, his head was swimming, memories of long ago hit him at once and he grabbed her hand to anchor himself to the present. He found her clear blue eyes like a lifeline. “Okay,” he said, releasing her hand.

Scully squeezed his bicep and slipped out down towards the changing rooms and heard Diana’s shrill voice the instant she shut the door behind her.

… .

“What was that, Fox?” she spat.

“What?” Mulder asked, raising an eyebrow. He stalked across the scrub room, glancing angrily at her. “Why do you keep insisting I work with you on the whole past life theory, Diana? There’s nothing there.”

“You wouldn’t be asking if you did not think so,” she countered. “What happened? The X-Files used to be everything to you. What changed?”

Scully, he thought, Scully changed everything. His mind flashed over the past five years. Scully had changed everything in him. She always did, he discovered. Instead, he settled for a simpler answer, still the truth, but not quite the answer she was looking for. “I no longer have the files. I am assigned to background checks, with this being an exception. If you excuse me, I need to find Scully.”

“She doesn’t believe, Mulder. Why do you insist on entertaining her? She only holds back your work, our work.”

Mulder licked his lips and picked up his coffee before walking past her. “Well, Scully’s never abandoned me,” he mumbled quietly. “Unlike some people.”

Diana grabbed his arm tightly. “I never abandoned you.”

“I’m sure,” he grimaced, pulling away his arm.

Mulder saw Scully standing at the end of the hall, sipping her coffee casually with a smug smile. He let himself acknowledge her with his own grin. “Good conversation,” she asked.

“You heard every word, didn’t you?”

“Mmm. Not every word, but the volume carried.” Mulder pressed his hand into her small of her back gently and walked with her. “What’s the next step, Mulder?”

“We have tapes to go through.” Mulder looked at his watch. “Do you want to go back to the field office and go through them or head back to the hotel and do it? It’s about quarter to six.”

“Hotel,” she said. “My feet are killing me. We can borrow a VCR and go through them over takeout. I get to pick though.”

“Pizza,” he guessed, “half mushrooms, peppers, sausage and the rest meat lovers?”

“Chinese.”

“Oh. Sweet and sour chicken, fried dumplings, and peppered steak?” She smiled in reply. “And Diet Coke or Ginger Ale?”

“Both,” she teased.

They walked together in companionable silence and Scully felt Mulder’s hand drift down lower to her waist and rest on it comfortably like it belonged there all along.

… .

Holiday Inn near the Airport Norfolk, Virginia December 17, 1998

Mulder jumped lightly into the full size bed with Scully laughing lightly. “So, on tonight’s Mulder’s Mystery Theatre,” he began, grabbing the remote, “we watch the terrible surveillance footage of a bank looking for a reincarnated sea captain from the civil war.”

“Mulder, stop it,” she chuckled, playfully shoving his chest.

“What?”

He snaked his arm her waist, effectively pulling her against him as she laughed, trying to get away. The mood in the air changed and she found herself tracing his face as if seeing it for the first time. She blinked and shook her head. “It’s like,” she hesitated, biting her lower lip, “I am seeing you for the first time, truly seeing you.”

“I hope that is a good thing?” he asked, unsure how to respond.

“Good thing.”

It was. Since earlier that afternoon, Scully’s memories were settling. Her existence in the 19th century, although spotty, she could remember everything from the time she had met Mulder in 1862. She remembered asking him to become his cohort in spying for the Union and fleeing Norfolk on the eve of the Union army coming to occupy.

“Mulder,” she whispered.

“Mmm?”

“I never said he was a sea captain,” she said softly. “Are you remembering something else?”

“Maybe,” he shrugged.

Mulder was reluctant to break away from her, especially with her fingers still tracing his face, like she was trying to memorize every little detail about him or convince herself of the truth in his presence. It was moments like this he wanted to kiss her so much but he held back. “Mulder, hurry up and do it before I change my mind,” she murmured.

“Scully,” he stuttered, “we do have work.”

“Mulder, we both want it. I can feel how much you do. Of all times you choose to be the practical one. Why can’t we? We both remember.” She arched an eyebrow hesitantly. “Don’t you?”

“Of course I do!” He grimaced, rolling away, and tried to hide his semi erection with a pillow. Scully titled her head, groaning. “Scully, I can’t. I just can’t.”

“Why? Why not, Mulder? We both know there is something in between us, lifetimes. Why are you turning away from me?”

“I don’t want to ruin this lifetime, like I have before,” he said, “and we both have a job to do.”

“Ruin…oh for fuck’s sake, Mulder.” She sighed and dropped her head. “Fine. Fine.” She pushed away and sat on the opposite side of the bed.”We might as well get started.”

Mulder fumbled with the VHS tape and pushed it in and began to fast forward it as he sat on the edge of the bed. Mulder had his back to Scully but she noticed how his left hand was bunched into a fist and his right handing holding the remote. She sighed and saw how much she was fighting himself. “Mulder, there is nothing we have not seen before. He’s too smart for that,” she said.

Scully crawled onto her knees and waddled to the end of the bed. She decided to throw caution to the wind and rested her hands on his broad shoulders and push her luck. This felt right and knew she had done this before. He relaxed back into her chest and lowered the VCR remote. “Maybe we should look at the tapes of his interviews,” he murmured.

She bent down and kissed the crook of his neck, trailing small kisses up to behind his ear. “We could,” she said.

Mulder turned his head to greet her with his own kiss. “We shouldn’t, Scully.”

“It’s been so long,” she replied. “Mulder, we are the same people as we were then. Just a bit smarter and wiser. This is a second chance. We’ve been given a second chance to be happy. That’s how I am looking at it.”

“What have you done with Scully?”

She gave a weak smile. “I’m myself all at once.”

He sighed wistfully and nodded slightly after a long moment as if taken over by some foreign force as his professionalism and common sense faded. “A very long time, Scully.”

He remembered the smoothness of her thighs but he had never touched them before in this life. He recalled how her fingers would rake through his hair as she would bite his shoulder that she had never done. “Mulder,” she breathed, “why do I have the weirdest sense of deja vu?”

“I don’t know. Scully, if we do this, there is no going back.”

“Please. I know this is what I want. And I hope, you do too.”

Mulder should have done a lot of things. He should have stopped her. He wanted to take it slow but she had other ideas. There was just so many things. Scully was already straddling his lap and cupped his face between her hands. “I do. I remember the first time, back then,” she whispered. She rested her forehead against hers. “You were so gentle with me that night. And your eyes.” She chuckled. “Oil lamps do bring out the color of them.”

“Scully?”

“Hmm.”

“Shut up.”

He pushed forward, darting his tongue into her mouth and she gasped in surprise before coiling her arms around his neck and deepened the kiss. It was as everything that they had thought it would be. She was the first to pull back as her hands caressed her temples. “Hi,” she whispered.

“Hello there, Miss Scully,” he smiled.

“How do we proceed?”

His hands slipped under her shirt and he smoothed her abdomen and she grunted pleasantly, sitting straighter in his lap and rubbed against his proof of arousal. “Scully,” he warned.

“Sorry,” she smiled. “Don’t be afraid, Mulder. I have more memories of you being…hm.” He had found her breasts and she sucked in a breath tightly. “More adventurous.”

“Memories or imagination?”

“Both.” She bit her lip with a smirk. “I…down in the office…on your desk.”

He lifted her shirt so that her arms were restrained and her face was covered but gave access to her chest. Mulder peppered them with kisses, gently biting her nipple through the thin material of her bra. She chuckled and squirmed in his lap, driving him crazy. He ripped her shirt off and Scully took his off in return, her hands lingering upwards past his abs, his pectorals, and lingering the puckered scar her gun left four years before. She kissed the scar reverently and he hissed in response. “Sensitive, Mulder?”

“Hm. A bit.” He sighed. “I’ve always imagined this, Scully. This moment.”

“The moment is now,” she coaxed. “Mulder, don’t make me beg.”

“Oh, no. Never.” He rolled her so she was back on the bed, her back facing the headboard. She crawled backward as he stalked towards her. “Are you sure about this, Scully?”

“Yes, Mulder, I am positive.”

He was gentle as he cupped her cheek, trailing his hand across her breasts, down her stomach as she lay backward. He unbuttoned her jeans, never breaking eye contact with her. He felt her breath hitch as he kissed the skin between her breasts over her heart, feeling the strong beating of her life beneath him. She hissed as his hot fingers traced the rim of her undergarments. Her hand raked through his hair as she pulled up his face to look at him. Mulder plunged his fingers into her southern valley and she hissed again if she had been burned.

She had memories of him doing this to her but she had never experienced it herself. “Mulder,” she breathed, “Jesus.”

“Hmmm? Satisfactory?”

“Hmph. More…than. Slow,” she said. “Slower, Mulder. I want to remember. I want to remember every single detail in this life.”

His ministrations slowed and she pressed her hips into his hand as he pushed deeper into her. Scully managed to get off her bra and he smiled greedily at the new exposure. “I did not know you were one to put out the first time, Scully.”

“Shut up, Mulder.”

He chuckled and went to work on her chest with his mouth while his steady hand continued southward. He could hear her chanting his name over and over again. She took a deep breath and bit into his right shoulder. Mulder’s head jerked up and grinned weakly. He withdrew his hand and whispered, “I always wondered what that felt like. You’ve really gone and done it this time.”

“What,” she giggled.

He nodded to the bullet wound and the red bite mark on his other shoulder. “You marked me.”

“I got to show everyone you’re mine.” He laughed and kissed her again. “Hm. I’m getting chilly. Under the covers?”

He rolled off her and he pulled down the blankets. Scully wiggled out of her jeans, aware of Mulder’s hungry glare. “What?”

“Um,” he began, unable to find his words.

He had always imagined this moment, and over the recent days, he began to have memories of it, having yet to experience it. Until now. “What?” she felt herself growing self-conscious. “Is there something wrong?”

“Now,” he coughed, smiling. “You look beautiful, more than beautiful. Perfect.” Scully shifted uncomfortably, glancing at his jeans and bulge. He chuckled and pulled his own jeans down awkwardly. “I have one more thing up my sleeves, Scully.” He nodded to the bed as she scooted back on to the mattress. He wanted to say something more but could not find the words. “Do you trust me, Scully?”

She smiled teasingly and nodded. She turned out the lamplight so the only the tv cast an eerie blue glue across the room. She kept eyeing his own package. But he surprised her by starting and kissing her on the lips and slowly trailing down her chest to her abdomen before disappearing over under the covers. She closed her eyes at the new sensations and his hands gently caressing her thighs, his warm lips and stubbled cheeks moving against her skin. She felt the pressure of her kisses and she was not careful, she would already come. “Shit, Mulder. Slow down!”

He heard his muffled chuckles and felt him pulling down the last of her clothes. She spread her hands next to her and resisted the urge to touch him. Then that wonderful tongue. Oh, the things Mulder could do. She jerked instantly at his first touch but oh, it was so wonderful. His hands kept smoothing and massaging her thighs and hips as she bucked upwards. It was exquisite. She sighed and relaxed into the mattress as a puddle of jelly. He crawled up over her and popped his head from underneath the blanket.He was smiling like a fool, before he settled over her.

“I don’t remember that,” she said, caressing his cheek.

“Mmm,” he smiled, kissing her. “Well, the first time in this life needed to be memorable. You know I ham an amazing tongue.”

“I’d say,” she whispered, “in more ways than one.” This was real, Scully convinced herself, this was happening right now. “Mulder, finish this.”

He entered her quickly and both gasped at the sensation. Below him, Scully merged together, her present and 19th-century selves, and he was falling in love all over again for the same woman he had loved throughout time. By the ethereal gaze in her own eye, Scully was immersed in similar thoughts about him. But he had never known such completeness; neither had she. She shuddered underneath him and lifted her legs around his hip to bring him in closer and wrapped her left arm around the expanse of his back and her right arm around his neck. She kissed him and began to rock with him. It was quick but felt more real than any of their past dreams. At the end, they both broke away with a new understanding and grounding to each other and their world.

#false flags redux #xfiles #xf fic #msr #msr fic #mulder and scully #mulder #scully #diana fowley #angst #smut #i can't sleep so i am posting another chapter super early #hurray insomnia

36 notes · View notes

vizhi0n · 6 years

Text

Sawney - Part 26

Chapter Masterlist

If u wanna be tagged or untagged, let me know!

@i-am-negan-trash @flames-bring-a-ton-of-ash @crzcorgi @kellyn1604 @fatedwisp @neganswinchesters @jeffreydeanneganstrash @ladylorelitanyfanfiction @mypapawinchester @heartfulloffandoms @my-achilles--heel @jasoncrouse @romeomontvgue @lucifers-trash-stash @kijilinn @genevievedarcygranger @superprincesspea @collette04 @toxic-ink @backseat-negan @rapsity @strangersangel9 @hannibalssweaters @gremlinfuck @negans-network @melodicdolls @mcnegan @nycktmcginn @itstotalyblue @vinylmadwoman @embracetheapocalypsewithme @darkangel66 @curlyhairedblueeyedangel @deviousginga @moonypetyr @imjustmakingsuffupagain @orchiddingme @chiwawha @ironictrickster @negans-shtten-pants @lovingzombiechaos @castielwinchester22

Warnings: no warnings for this chapter.

“The supply list isn’t long. There are three primary points of interest, all within a short distance of one another. The full trip should take less than two days, give or take a few hours,” Eugene held out the piece of paper. Desa took it, tucking it into her pocket while Drake readied the truck.

“You never cease to fucking amaze me, Eugene,” Negan rested Lucille against his shoulder, before addressing Desa. “You don’t have to do this. I’m fucking thankful that you volunteered, but I could always send Laura or Regina—”

“It’s fine. I want to get out, stretch my legs,” Desa smiled, glancing over her shoulder at Drake. “Unlike Laura and Regina, I know what your favorite liquor brand is. If I see some, I’ll bring it back.”

“And that’s why you’re my fucking favorite.”

“That’s not the only reason,” Desa chuckled, standing on her tiptoes and pressing her lips against Negan’s. When she pulled away, she said, “I’ll come back in one piece. I promise.”

“You’d better.”

Eugene watched the exchange, dipping his head uncomfortably before saying, “This is a time-sensitive mission. The faster you find the supplies, the less likely any…undesirables are to stumble upon it, especially considering that these are items Alexandria and the others communities do not have in their less than adequate stockpiles.”

“We’ll go quickly, Eugene,” Desa said. She saw Negan smirk and spin on his heels, making his way back inside. Desa climbed into the truck, sliding into the passengers seat as Drake cranked the engine and took off through the gates.

“So…what’s our plan?”

“Get those supplies first, and then head to the tracks. I put the power tools in the back the other day.”

“Always one step ahead,” Drake chuckled.

Desa spread out the map, tracing the locations Eugene had marked with her finger. In a low voice, she said, “We’ll hit the farthest one first. Then circle back and do the others last. Then the tracks.”

“Don’t forget the truck.”

“Yeah, that,” Desa snorted, rubbing her eyes. The sudden realization that they’d be driving separate hit her — the full plan consisted of snatching one of the leftover transport trucks from the Estate’s old outpost, stuffing them full of explosives, and then tucking it away somewhere in the woods. Sighing, she grumbled, “This is too complicated.”

“This is all we could really do. We needed a reason to leave, and Eugene’s supply list happened to a good excuse. Negan doesn’t suspect anything, right?” in a more concerned voice, Drake said, “right?”

“Calm down. Don’t worry about that,” Desa waved a hand. “This is the hard part, and the only part you need to worry about. The rest is on me.” “I’ll accept that,” Drake sniffed, glancing over at the map. The drive continued in relative silence, and after a few minutes Desa felt herself drifting off. She barely remembered the rest of the trip, only waking when Drake grabbed her by the shoulder and shook.

“Wake up. We’re here.”

Desa sniffed, lifting her head and peering out the window. The auto store before them was, along with most of the buildings around, desolate. The front windows were shattered, and corpses littered the ground — unmoving, and very much dead. It was a telltale sign that at least one other group had been through the place, and Desa prayed they’d left all of Eugene’s “goodies” and opted for things like fuel and tires.

“I, uh…I don’t know how well-versed you are when it comes to machinery—”

“I’m not. Why do you think I’ve been asking you for help all this time?” Desa smirked, grabbing her gun and hopping from the car. She pulled Eugene’s list out of her pocket, glancing over it. “The only thing I recognize is ‘an old radio.’”

She handed the list to Drake. He read it over, nodding, before turning to Desa and saying, “Stay out here.”

“And risk the possibility of you getting hurt?”

Drake grimaced. “It’s a small store. I used to scavenge, remember?”

“Fine,” Desa raised her hand in a placating gesture, leaning against the truck while Drake stepped through the open door, gun clasped between his fingers. His boots crunched against broken glass, and Desa’s nerves immediately flared the second he was out of her sight.

Nothing happened. No roamers, no lurkers waiting for a victim. Drake returned with the supplies, tossing them into the back of the truck.

Their next two stops consisted of an old electronics store stuffed with vintage material, and, to Desa’s surprise, a small sports-oriented store. They encountered the undead only once, and it took no less than a minute for her and Drake to clear the area.

“Last but not least,” Drake sighed, pulling into the old Estate outpost. The transport truck — a small, half-semi with a faded logo on the side, sat waiting. Drake stayed in the car while Desa hoped out, a little cautious about driving such a large vehicle. Despite her fears, she slid into the drivers seat, snatching the keys from the dashboard console.

She followed behind Drake, shoulders tense the entire time. She was relieved the moment they reached the train tracks. After scanning the area for any dangers, she and Drake got to work.

Well, Drake got to work. He knew what he was doing, and Desa didn’t doubt him. She took watch, only stopping to hold something down or up or to hand Drake a tool. By the time night fell, she was covered in sweat, and Drake’s arms were streaked with grease. They’d transport the submunitions into the truck after tugging them from the missile, before looping around to the next one. And then the next. Until all eight missiles were taken apart, now empty shells.

“Where are we parking this thing?” Drake grunted, loading the last submunition into the truck. Desa assisted him and they pulled the door down.

“There’s a tunnel a few miles from here. It’s overgrown — vines everywhere. It’s not something you look for.”

“You’ll have to lead, then.”

Desa shrugged. “Fine by me.”

She felt more comfortable, driving, despite the deadly cargo in the back of the truck. It took her a moment to pinpoint their destination, and with the added stress of having to go off road, she felt that confidence begin to dwindle, and fast.

Desa found the tunnel, backing the truck into the deep, dark cavern while Drake took care of any straggling biters. Desa hopped out quick, making sure to cover what parts of the truck she could see with shrugs and foliage. When the deed was done, she wiped her hands on her jeans, glancing behind her at Drake.

“That…wasn’t as difficult as I thought it was going to be.”

“It’s because we did it together,” Desa said, sighing. She wasted no time in getting into the pickup truck, eager to get back to the Sanctuary. She was sweaty, hair sticking to her forehead, arms and legs tired from toting around heavy material. Drake seemed to share her sentiment because he, too, wasted no time in sliding into the drivers seat.

“There’s an old shed on the way back. You need supplies for that detonator.”

“Eugene’s list actually has most of it on there…although I’m not sure if he’d be down to share,” Drake murmured. He shrugged, peering up at the night sky. “I mean, we have time.”

Of course they did.

The took a detour to the shed, parking the car by the road and venturing into the forest. Like Desa had said, the shed was vacant and run down. Nonetheless, Desa and Drake ventured inside, guns drawn.

They were met with a lunging, undead corpse that Drake dispatched with a single swing of his machete. The body toppled, and Desa stood over it. Something was…off about the biter, though Drake didn’t seem to notice. He was too busy scurrying around the building, practically salivating as he sifted through each shelf of supplies.

“There’s like…old school RadioShack stuff in here…” Drake exclaimed. “We have plenty of batteries. Duct tape, masking tape…hey, what type of liquor did Negan say he liked?”

Desa didn’t respond. She’d figured out why the biter seems to strange to her.

It looked familiar.

The man’s name was Steve. He was a Savior — a scavenger. Despite the large machete wound through his skull, Desa was able to recognize his red hair and freckled face. She knelt, ignoring Drake’s questioning, and flipped the corpse onto it’s stomach.

The back of his shirt was stained with blood, evidence of a gunshot wound right above his hip. And it was recent.

Shit.

“Desa, what the hell—”

Desa barely managed to shout before Father used the butt end of his rifle to knock Drake unconscious. By the time Desa managed to draw her gun and fire, the bullet sailed and hit nothing. Father had ducked, sprinting with impeccable speed and throwing his entire weight against Desa.

The gun flew from her hand, and she landed, hard, against the shed floor. She reared up, fingers questing for her knife. When she looked up, she found herself staring into Father’s single eye, and then the butt of a gun as it came down hard across her face.

She felt nothing after that.

#vizhi0nw #negans thirst squad

29 notes · View notes

faegal04 · 7 years

Text

Temper Temper

Summary: After several hunts leave you in a disgusting mess and your temper is flaring, you and the boys hit a restaurant for some much needed sustenance and things happen.

Pairing/Character: Dean Winchester x reader, Sam Winchester

Word Count: 1622

Warnings: None really

A/N: Written for Andi’s back in the game challenge. My prompt was: : “I’d die for you, kill for you, and if you take another one of my fries, I’ll just plain kill you.” it’s in bold.

Beta: the fabulous and wonderful @skybinx-blog Thanks again Leah! *muah*

Tagging: @ellen-reincarnated1967 @demondean-for-kingofhell @winchesterprincessbride @jotink78 @winchestersnco @iamdeanfknwinchester @16wiishes @s4m-w1nch3st3r5287 @chaoticevilanddowntofuck @pizzarollpatrol @mizzzpink @cliffordevious @iliketowrite02 @megansescape @feelmyroarrrr @reigningqueenofwords @arryn-nyxx @akshi8278 @14readwritedraw96 @anokhi07 @lupine-princess

SPN Tag Sheet: @mrswhozeewhatsis @thinkwritexpress-official @itsemmyb @ezauraemmaline @matteson-crazed @charliesbackbitches @crzcorgi @gryffindorable713 @deerlululucy @walkingencyclopediaoffandom @mrsjohnsmith @manawhaat @growleytria @thegleegeneration @samtomydeanwinchester @i-never-said-a-pilot @sis-tafics @fandommaniacx @meganwinchester1999 @kittenofdoomage @samanddeanwinchester67 @ferferelli @lilyoflothlorien @iridianuniverse @the-morning-star-falls @ackleslaugh @fangirling-instead-of-working @aprofoundbondwithdean @eyes-of-a-disney-princess @roxy-davenport @spnsimpleman @faith-in-dean @mamaimpala @for-the-love-of-dean @winchesterfiesta @zanthiasplace @sleep-silent-angel @thing-you-do-with-that-thing @gadreelsforbiddenfruit @trenchcoats-and-bees @curliesallovertheplace @jencharlan @thebunkerismyhome @beachy2014 @fandom-book-nerd @leatherwhiskeycoffeeplaid @tia58 @sams-little-toy @deansleather @sunriserose1023 @jelly-beans-and-gstrings @saving-things-hunting-family @winchesterswoonathon @lucifer-in-leather @i-dont-know-how-to-write @notnaturalanahi @howmanytuesdaysdidyouhave @supernatural-jackles @babypieandwhiskey @wheresthekillswitch @revwinchester @pinknerdpanda @quiddy-writes

“Nonstop monsters. That’s what my life had narrowed down to. For the last six weeks, the three of us had been zig zagging across the states involved in some of the weirdest and hardest hunts I had ever come across. Let’s not talk about how it seemed like the supernatural asshats, seemed to have focused on me for the inevitable, disgusting ends they met.

So far, I had been ectoplasmed, been covered by shredded okami, then there was that damn clown that had exploded leaving behind glitter-that I was still finding on me and my clothes and let’s not forget the demon who exploded thanks to Crowley’s snap of fingers and his “Sorry, pet, I just couldn’t listen to him prattle on anymore.” After all the supernatural messes, Cas had gotten me chased into a lake by a swarm of pissed off bees, because he thought they would be better off in a “happy” tree, leading up to tonight’s virtual shit show of being chased by a werewolf in the rain which is where we pick up our story fair readers. Hang on it’s about to get messy.”

Wagon Wheel Motel, an hour earlier

“Of course it’s a werewolf, cause who doesn’t want to hunt one in the pouring down rain,” you said with a roll of the eyes, “at night too.”

“Look, princess if it’s too much for you to handle, we’ll take care of it, you can stay here and paint your nails,” Dean mocked, ignoring the way your eyes narrowed at his insinuation.

Sam looked between the two of you, trying to figure out how to defuse the bomb that his stupid brother just lit. “Um, guys, can we focus on the case. You know, dead guys and all that.”

You snarled in Dean’s direction then turned your attention to the only Winchester you would be speaking with in the near future. “Sure, Sammy. What’s the plan?”

Sam smiled gratefully at you, “Right. So I think we should split up, it’ll be easier that way,” and then he mumbled, “plus I won’t have to referee the cage match that’s going to occur.”

“What?!” you barked out. You narrowed your eyes, ‘Okay, so that makes two Winchesters that I’m not speaking to.’ You grabbed your gun and jacket, then headed towards the door. “Are we waiting for a written invitation?” You leveled them both with a glare, “Let’s go gank a werewolf.”

‘I’ll give you a written invitation,’ Dean smirked at you, “After you princess.”

‘Jesus, how do I get myself into these situations?’ You could barely see in front of your face, as the rain came down in sheets, you were completely soaked and you could see each pant of breath as you ran. ‘How the hell do I always end up as bait?’ You slid into a tree as you tried to change direction to quickly, ‘Oh yeah, it’s because I don’t have a penis!’ Ignoring the sting in your palms from the bark biting into your flesh, you pushed off from the tree, running as fast as you could.

Each snap of a twig and the squelching sounds of mud echoed in the wooded area around you, so you weren’t sure who was chasing who anymore. Sliding to a stop because you couldn’t run any further, you saw that you were at a small cluster of trees, hoping it would help hide you for just a few minutes. You bent over, grabbed your knees and tried to inhale as much air as possible, so that you could keep going. Besides your loud breathing and heart beating in a staccato rhythm-’that can’t be healthy,’ you heard the sound of an animal breathing heavily to your left.

You stood up, quietly pulled your gun out, racking the slide back you peeked around the tree to see the wolf on Dean’s trail. You quickly raised your Colt to the air, firing harmlessly to alert Dean. Both hunter and prey turned at the same time, you groaned when the animal leapt towards you. Taking off, you ran back towards the direction you had just come from, you were trying to lose the animal, leaving Dean a clear shot at it.

Of course things couldn’t be that easy though. The wolf was sticking to you like glue, he was right on your heels when you heard the snarl and the snapping of jaws at your back. You could hear the terror in Dean’s voice as he yelled for you to run faster. Your legs were starting to shake from exhaustion, running in mud and darkness not the easiest thing when suddenly Sam was three feet in front of you.

“DOWN!” he yelled, pointing his gun directly at you.

You threw yourself to the ground, sliding head first towards Sam as a shot rang out and the sound of a body hitting the mud echoed with a loud splat. You rolled over onto your back and smiled up at Sam. “My hero!” He chuckled and reached a hand down for you to grab. He pulled you up from the mud, as Dean made it to where you both were.

“Y/N! Sweetheart are you okay? That son of a bitch was fast!” Dean huffed out.

You nodded shakily at him. “Yup, I’m great. I’m also starving, let’s go get something to eat!”

“Seriously?” Sam looked at you incredulously. “You can go from imminent death, to feed me Seymour in the span of seconds.”

“Did you just meet me or something Sammy?” you snickered.

Sam shook his head eyes filled with laughter at you, “You and Dean are a perfect match, Y/N.”

Dean chuckled, “Let’s get you cleaned up first, sweetheart,” he motioned his hand at the mud covering you from head to toe.

You squinted your eyes and clenched your hands into fists, “I have no clothes here, Dean, they're all back at the motel. You’ve seen me naked, but I don’t need to be giving free shows to your brother. Let’s just go now!”

“B-but….” he stammered, “Baby...mud in my car.”

Sam closed his eyes and prayed for strength. He opened them just in time to grab the back of your jacket as you leapt toward Dean and pulled you behind him. Glaring at Dean, “Dude, abort. Seriously, let this one go.”

Dean nodded as he heard the growls coming from you. “Fine, fine, fine. Let’s eat.”

As you walked into the little diner, you ignored all the stares that were directed at your appearance, you smiled at the waitress as she she showed you guys to a table. Sam looked out the big window and shook his head at Dean, who was currently shaking his head in disbelief as he looked at the mud covered backseat.

“What can I get you folks?” the waitress asked, “Honey, I don’t know if you realize it, but you do know that you’re covered in mud right?”

You giggled, looking at her name tag, “Yeah. I’m aware Norma, thank you though. Can I please get bacon cheeseburger and the largest fries you have with a Pepsi?”

The waitress got Sam’s order and walked off shaking her head, glad she wasn’t going to have to be the one to clean the chair you currently occupied. You looked out towards the parking lot at Dean, who was still just standing there looking lost. “He’s really going to pout about this one for awhile, isn’t he?”

Sam laughed, “Yeah, that’s pretty much a given. We’re going to have to coddle him for a bit after this.”

You rolled your eyes, “I’ll make him a pie when we get back to the bunker.” You sat up straighter when you saw Norma carrying your food, wondering if you started drooling if anyone would notice.

She smiled at you and sat the plate down in front of you, just as Dean made his way in and over to your table. He sat across from you, reaching towards your plate, he snatched a french fry and popped it in his mouth.

You tilted your head and bit back a nasty response and started drumming your fingers on the wooden table. Sam watched in silence, unbelieving how obtuse his brother was. Every time he snatched a fry, you got this murderous glint in your eye, and Sam could see you plotting Dean’s death with each tap of your nails.

Figuring he would stop once he ordered and received his food, you bit your tongue each time he grabbed a fry. When Sam asked him why he didn’t order his own fries, you gripped the fork in your hand tighter when he replied back, that he didn’t need to since you had already ordered plenty for the both of you. Dean started to reach towards your plate again, when you suddenly slammed the tines of the fork down into the table in front of your plate. Dean froze and looked at you, suddenly realizing how pissed you were.

“Sweet-” he started to say.

“Dean,�� you replied through gritted teeth, “I’d die for you, kill for you, and if you take another one of my fries, I’ll just plain kill you.”

Sam pushed back from the table, not wanting to be close to the violence that he was sure was about to happen and he hoped that his brother would not open his mouth and make the situation worse like he knew Dean was able to.

Dean looked slowly from the fork that was stuck in the table, up to your eyes and gulped, he made sure that you could see his hand as he slowly moved his hand back to his own side of the table.

You smiled sweetly, “Pass the salt, please.”

#dean winchester x reader #ellen-reincarnated1967 #andi’sbackinthegame #andi’swritingchallenge #dean!girl #spn fic #spn one shot #dean winchester one shot #dean x reader

249 notes · View notes

the-write-witch · 6 years

Text

Excerpt from What Happens in the Forest

Chapter One

Things had always appeared in the forest.

Sometimes they were things we needed—a spool of white thread, caught between the branches of a tree, when the old one had just worn out—and sometimes they were things we wanted— a cluster of my grandmother's favorite morels, foraged in early summer. Sometimes they were things meant to be gifts for fairies, left by superstitious old men and women—a jar of honey or a shiny silver button—and sometimes they were things that had been scattered by the wind—a newspaper clipping of expired coupons for canned radishes. Sometimes they were things that made no sense at all—a single mitten, for example, or two infant girls, one with antlers of branch and another with fox ears, nestled at the base of an oak tree.

And sometimes they were things that were not needed or wanted. Like that day in particular, when a group of strangers tromped down a path into the forest.

I stared down at my older sister through the branches of the tree, watching her turn in a slow circle.

I crept as far as the branch would allowed me, the wood groaning lightly under my weight, and dropped down to the ground. I smacked my hand flat against her back.

“You're it!”

But my sister didn't budge, not even as I straightened out of my crouch. Her brows were furrowed, her dark eyes trained on the trees ahead of her, as her tail writhed back and forth.

“Rowan?” I stepped closer to her, laying a hand on her arm. “What's wrong?”

She started, whipping her head around, as if just noticing me for the first time. Her eyes were wide, and her nostrils were flared.

“Rowan?” I said again.

She signed something—her fingers too quick for me to understand.

Then she darted towards the nearest tree, scampering up the branches as fast as she could. I watched her disappear into the foliage.

A moment later, I heard voices—not my mother's or younger sister's or grandmother's. The voices of strangers.

Rowan let out a sound from the trees—a sharp, anxious yip—and the noise was like a bucket of ice water thrown in my face. I hurriedly climbed up the tree after her as the voices came closer.

I pulled myself up onto the branch just below Rowan, dangling about forty feet above the forest floor.

My heart thundered in my chest, like a bird attempting to break free from its cage.

I glanced up at Rowan, clenching the branch beneath me until my knuckles turned white. My older sister's eyes had narrowed to slits, and her ears were pressed down flat against her head. A sharp canineflashed as her lips skinned back from her teeth.

“How long have we been out here?” a voice asked.

And that was when a group of strangers came tromping through the trees.

I pressed myself further back against the trunk of the fir tree, staring down at the group through the thick green needles that hid me from sight. Sap oozed from the bark between my fingers, and the strong scent of it filled my nostrils.

“A little over an hour,” a man said. He was holding something in his hand, small and round, and he gave it a hard, aggravated shake. “Damn compass still isn't working.” He snapped the compass closed and tucked it into his pocket. “Which side of the tree does moss grow on it? Is it north?”

“There's moss on every side of this tree,” another man answered, nudging the trunk of the tree beside him with his boot.

There were four of them in all, three men and a woman, and they wore clothes patched with mismatching squares of fabric. Each carried a bulky gun strapped across their back. My sister's lip curled back from her teeth in a snarl at the sight of them, and I shushed her.

Two more strangers appeared.

My breath caught in my throat, and I leaned forward to get a closer look.

They were brothers, near my age, with the same unruly dark hair and lean figures. Though the older brother was handsomer, with pale blue eyes and a straight, sculpted nose, I found myself staring at the younger boy. There was a hollowness to his cheeks, but his face still held a trace of childlike roundness.

One of the men spoke up. It was the one with the compass. “I don't like the idea of being out here longer than necessary,” he grumbled, digging the toe of his boot into the dirt as his eyes scanned the underbrush. “This forest puts me on edge.”

The woman snorted. “Then lead the way back, Glenn,” she said and crossed her arms over her chest, the gun on her back shifting with the movement. “Go on. Be my guest.”

The man named Glenn scowled at her.

The third man spoke. He'd been silent until that moment, and I noticed that he had the same hair as the two boys. Their father.

“All this time wasted, and nothing to show for it.”

“I don't know why we expected anything else.” The woman pulled a small carton from the pocket of her jacket and shook out a cigarette. She stuck it between her teeth and lit it with a match. “This damned forest doesn't want us here.”

“You've been reading too many fairytales, Helena. It's just a forest.”

With a frown, I snapped a pine cone from one of the branches and hurled it at the man's head.

The woman chuckled as the man winced and lifted a hand to the back of his head. “Damn squirrels.”

“Yeah,” the woman replied, taking a draw from her cigarette. “Squirrels.”

I bit down on my lip to hide my laughter.

Then I noticed the younger boy staring up through the branches of the trees.

At me.

He still wore the same pensive expression, but his brows had drawn together lightly over his eyes. He gently inclined his head, his lips parting as if his tongue hadn't yet caught up with his thoughts.

My eyes went wide. I pressed myself against the trunk of the tree, my nails digging into the bark.

I waited for him to alert the others, but he simply held my gaze.

“We should try retracing our steps,” the man with the compass, Glenn, said.

The boy and I both turned to look at him.

The woman was nodding her head. She dropped her cigarette to the dirt and ground it out with the heel of her boot. “I guess it's better than aimlessly wandering in circles.”

My gaze flickered back to the boy.

When the others turned to go, the boy paused, lingering a few seconds longer than necessary. The corner of his lip lifted—or perhaps it was a trick of the light.

I watched as they trudged off through the trees back the way they'd came. When their voices faded, everything was still. The forest seemed too silent now, too empty, as if they'd never really been there at all.

My sister glanced at me, her fingers hesitant as she asked, Should we follow?

But I was already scrambling down the branches.

I wiped the sap from my palms on my dress as Rowan dropped down beside me in a shower of needles, landing silently on all fours and then straightened out of her crouch. She looked over at me, ears quirked in curiosity and bewilderment.

We moved quietly through the forest as we followed after them.

My sister and I stuck to the shadows, keeping hidden behind trees. I caught bits and pieces of their conversations, but it was as if I were listening to someone speak in another language, one that was entirely foreign to me. I kept waiting for the boy to speak up or to glance back over his shoulder at us, but he followed silently after the rest of the group.

The sun began to sink below the trees.

For another hour, they wandered through the forest, passing the same tree twice—though none of them seemed to notice. I wondered if my mother and younger sister had given up on our game of tag and gone home.

The group stopped in a small clearing, gathering a pile of tinder and lighting a fire. They passed around a flask, and the woman, Helena, lit another cigarette. She shared one with the older boy and the man named Glenn. The ends glowed orange in the twilight.

“What now?” the father of the two boys asked.

“There's no way in hell I'm spending the night out here,” the woman said. She was on her third cigarette.

“Then what do you suggest?” Glenn replied. He sounded irritated.

Footsteps crunched over twigs and fallen leaves.

Glenn and Helena leapt to their feet, swinging the guns from their shoulders. I heard something click into place, and my nostrils flared. I grabbed the collar of my sister's dress to keep her from dashing across the clearing.

Shadows flickered across the face of my grandmother where she stood between the two trees.

Her silver hair hung in a long braid over her shoulder, and there was a basket on the crook of her elbow. Light from the fire glinted off several glass jars and fresh vegetables inside. She wore a puckered expression, as if she'd tasted something bitter.

“Who the hell are you?” Glenn asked, but his voice trembled.

My grandmother ignored the question. “You ought to know better than to come here.” Her voice was low. “What are you still doing on your asses? Up. Up. All of you. I haven't got all night.”

The rest of the group slowly rose to their feet.

“What do you want?” Helena asked.

“I want you to put out that bloody fire,” my grandmother snapped. “And then I want you out of my forest.” She turned on her heel and started through the trees. Over her shoulder, she called out, “Come on, then. There are worse things than me lurking in this darkness.”

Helena stubbed out her cigarette as the men scrambled to put out the fire, kicking dirt onto the ashes until they'd died out. She swung her gun back over her shoulder, but Glenn kept his clutched tightly in his hands. The group exchanged a quick glance before following after my grandmother.

Rowan and I slunk after them.

They followed my grandmother to the edge of the Outside.

I knelt in the bushes as they stepped into the clearing, the grass nearly grown to their knees. Glenn muttered a prayer beneath his breath and finally released his hold on the gun. The others started towards the road in the distance, where I could make out a truck parked beside the grass, but the woman, Helena, turned back to look at my grandmother.

“Thank you,” she said.

My grandmother held out the basket—or rather, she thrust it towards the woman. “Provisions,” she said. “I take it your hunting didn't go as planned.” A hint of a smile touched her lips, but it was gone just as quickly. “There's some money in there, as well. I don't have any use for it, but it should keep you fed through the winter.” The woman took the basket. It must have been heavier than it looked because she staggered beneath the weight, clutching it to her chest with both arms. My grandmother planted her hands on her hips. “Let this be a warning to you—all of you. Next time you're on your own.”

She turned her back to the strangers.

“Thank you,” the woman blurted again.

My grandmother paused. Without looking back, she said, “Stay out of my goddamn forest.”

The woman ran to catch up with the others.

As my grandmother passed the bush where my sister and I were concealed, she said, “Come on, girls. It's late. You should both be in bed.”

I scowled and straightened from the bush, wiping dirt from my palms.

My sister made a sound like a whine at the back of her throat.

I thought back to the boy with his dark eyes and soft, wistful mouth. I had to keep myself from bouncing on my toes as I asked impatiently, “Who were they? What were they doing here?”

My grandmother licked her thumb and wiped sap from Rowan's cheek as she squirmed. “Don't know,” she grumbled. “Don't care.”

“What was in that basket?”

“Some canned food from storage and other things that won't quickly spoil.” She plucked pine needles from my hair. “A bit of my grandfather's savings. Hopefully enough to keep them away. How long were they lost for?”

“Only a few hours,” I told her.

“Damn fools.”

“Does mom know that you helped them?”

My grandmother made a sound caught between a snort and a laugh. “There are plenty of things I don't tell you mother. This would be one of them. She's got enough to worry about as it is, you hear me?”

I bobbed my head up and down.

My grandmother took my sister's hand, and then mine. Her palms were rough and calloused. “How about some hot cocoa when we get back?” She glanced over at me and winked. “That can be our little secret, as well.”

Chapter Two

The bath water had turned murky from the dirt on my skin.

I scraped dried chunks from beneath my fingernails and watched them drift to the bottom of the tub, lying against the white ceramic.

I closed my eyes and sunk beneath the surface, holding my breath. I listened to the muffled sounds beneath the water: the drip, drip, drip of the tap; feet shuffling across the wooden floorboards; my grandmother's voice, somewhere far away.

I thought of the boy, staring up at me through the canopy of leaves, and dug my fingernails into my palms until the pain drove the image away. Spots of color flickered against the back of my lids.

I emerged from the water and pushed my hair back from my face, my fingers catching in the knots. I traced my fingers around the stumps of branch that were hidden by the curls and then pressed down on the blunted tips. My mother had noticed them the other day, and as she brushed back my hair, she said, “Remind me one day this week, and we'll trim them down. We don't want you poking anyone's eyes out.”

My grandmother always said I was born looking like my true parent: Short and stout like the trunk of a tree. Eyes the color of oak leaves and hair like tangled bramble. Freckles like stubborn flecks of dirt.

I reached down and unplugged the drain, and then I sat as the water swirled away until the tub was empty.

Then I stepped out onto the tiled floor and fetched a fresh towel from the linen closet. I wrapped it around myself and braided my hair back into a wet, snarled mass.

Water dripped onto the floor as I padded downstairs to the kitchen, where my grandmother was warming a pan of goat milk on the stove. My older sister was sitting at the table, swinging her legs back and forth, back and forth, as she worriedly chewed on her bottom lip.

While my grandmother might not have been a witch or a fairy, she certainly looked the part: long, silver hair that she normally wore braided or loose over her shoulders; sharp, dark eyes framed by crow's feet; tattered clothes that had been mended time and time again with patches of mismatched fabric. She even smelled how one would expect a witch to, of rich earth and patchouli and bundles of dried lavender.

A bead of blood sprung on Rowan's lip, and her tongue darted out to lick it away.

I sunk down onto the chair next to my sister and stretched my legs out to rest them in her lap. I picked at a loose string on my towel.

You're dripping water everywhere, Rowan signed, but she stayed where she was, my feet propped on her lap.

Footsteps creaked on the stairs, and I lifted my head.

My mother stood on the bottom step, her arms wrapped tightly around her chest. Her hair had come loose and was sticking out in all directions, and there was a faint impression from wrinkled sheets on her left cheek.

My younger sister peered out from behind her, her stuffed rabbit hanging loosely from one hand. With the other, she rubbed sleepily at her pale blue eyes.

“Where have you been?” Anna asked, and it seemed as if she'd beaten my mother to the question.

My mother's gaze darted to my grandmother, and her arms tightened around her chest.

As she stirred cocoa powder into the pan of milk, without looking up, my grandmother replied, “I hope we didn't wake you.”

My mother didn't answer, but Anna hefted her stuffed rabbit and cradled it to her chest. “Mamaí stayed up, but I told her not to worry. Didn't I, Mamaí? I said everything's alright because the trees said so, and if the trees said so, then it must be true.”

A smile managed to creep onto my mother's face, and she ran a hand over her eyes. She released a sigh like steam hissing from a tea pot. “Well, there better be enough cocoa for five,” she said after a moment, pulling out a seat at the kitchen table and sinking down into it.

Anna and I slept in Rowan's bed that night, curled up against one another, sharing a blanket, like we'd used to when we were little. Our fingers were sticky from the hot cocoa.

With the fur of my younger sister's rabbit tickling my cheek and my older sister's elbow wedged into my side, I fell asleep.

Chapter Three

Carolyn Glass waited up past midnight for her father and brothers to return.

Her step-mother, Athalia, sat on the couch in the living room, chin propped in her hand, but she kept nodding off and then jerking awake with a start. There was something about Athalia that reminded Carolyn of a startled rabbit—perhaps it was the tawny hair, or the large green eyes that were a bit too far apart. Or that she always seemed on edge, like she was one shock away from leaping through the roof.

Carolyn's own hair was darker, like caramel, and fell in tangled ringlets over her shoulders. She had dozens of freckles and brown eyes, like Peter—and like her mother, who they didn't speak of and who Carolyn could hardly remember.

At that moment, Athalia had fallen asleep again.

There were dark circles like bruises beneath her eyes, and her lips moved quietly. Carolyn inched closer to see if she could make out anything, but it was all whispered, dreamy nonsense.

She flew back to her spot in the kitchen as Athalia started awake.

Athalia's green eyes were wide—wider than usual, though Carolyn didn't know how she managed that—and they were scanning the living room frantically. She relaxed after a minute or two, sinking back against the couch cushions. Carolyn stifled a giggle.

Athalia glanced over at Carolyn, who was still dressed in her school clothes—a neat plaid jumper over a white blouse, a matching navy ribbon in her hair. She'd at least taken off her shoes and stockings. Athalia had put Carolyn's infant half-sister, Mary St. Claire, to bed four hours ago, and though Carolyn should have also gone to bed, she knew that she wouldn't have been able to sleep until the others returned.

“You ought to get to bed,” Athalia said, rubbing at her eyes. She would never think of ordering Carolyn though.

Carolyn made a face somewhere between a pout and a scowl. It was the sort of face that came naturally to her and almost always resulted in her getting her way. “Not until Peter gets home safe.”

“At least go change into your pajamas,” Athalia said.

“Fine.”

Carolyn went to her room and slipped out of her school clothes. She left them in a pile at the foot of her bed as she pulled on a nightgown and untied the ribbon from her hair. She even brushed her teeth to pass some of the time.

Then she went back out into the kitchen to wait.

It was another twenty minutes before there was a click as the locks on the front door opened from the outside.

Athalia and Carolyn leapt to their feet.

Carolyn's father entered first, a shotgun slung over one shoulder. He looked tired and angry, but that was nothing new. He was followed by their neighbors, Glenn and Helena. Carolyn peered around them for her brothers. She spotted them behind her father's friend, Daniel. Her one brother, Peter, caught her gaze and offered her a wink as her oldest brother, Elijah, sunk onto one of the couches in the living room.

Helena was carrying a basket in her arms, but she set it down on the coffee table, along with her gun. Athalia crossed her arms over her chest and pursed her lips at the gun, but of course, said nothing. Carolyn stood on her toes trying to see into the basket. There were several glass jars and a bag full of potatoes.

Her stomach grumbled.

Carolyn's father glanced over and spotted her by the kitchen table, narrowing his eyes. Carolyn shrunk in on herself as if she could disappear right then and there.

“Carolyn. Bed.”

He said it in a voice that told her she'd better not argue, or else.

She scrambled down the hall to her room and closed the door behind her. Then she pressed her ear to the wall.

Carolyn heard Athalia ask, “What's all this? I thought you were going hunting.”

Someone set something down. Loudly.

A man snorted. “Ask Helena. She's the one who's been babbling about fairytales and daoine sídhe the whole way back.”

“We saw them—or at least, one of them,” a woman, Helena, answered. Her voice was high and anxious, the words flying quickly from her mouth. Carolyn couldn't tell if she was frightened or excited. “The old woman. The grandmother, I guess. We were lost. I thought we'd have to spend the night out there.”

Athalia gasped. Sometimes, she could be more dramatic than even Carolyn.

“But she just—appeared,” Helena went on. “She led us out of the forest. And she gave us this.”

Carolyn wondered what this was. The basket? She wished someone would just say something.

She heard a faint pop. She recognized it as the lid on a sealed mason jar opening.

“Oh, my,” Athalia said. “I haven't had spiced cherry preserves in so long. And is that homemade pasta sauce?” Carolyn heard glasses clinking together. “Helena, come smell these sun-dried tomatoes.”

“That's not all,” her father said. “There's over five-hundred dollars in cash here.”

“What?” The word bounced off the rafters, and someone shushed Athalia. “What?” she repeated in a whisper.

“She thinks she can pay us off to keep out of the forest,” a man told her. It was followed by a thud and a muffled groan.

“Be grateful,” Helena snapped. “She didn't have to give us anything. Or worse—she could have left us out there all night.”

Carolyn pressed herself closer to the wall.

Who were they talking about? What old woman?

She heard footsteps outside in the hall, and her door creaked open. She froze.

“Just me,” a voice said.

Carolyn darted from the wall and threw herself into her older brother's arms. Peter smelled like pine needles and sweat and smoke from a bonfire, but she didn't care. She pressed herself tighter against him.

“What's going on? What are they talking about?”

Peter carried her over to the bed and set her down on top of the covers. She stared up at him from beneath her lashes as he sat beside her.

“Nothing you need to worry about,” he told her. “Did you stay up waiting for me?”

Carolyn crossed her arms over her chest. “Dad wouldn't let me go with you.” When her brother laughed, she socked him in the shoulder. “Is it because I'm a girl?”

Peter rubbed at the spot she'd hit. “Because,” he said, “you scream whenever you get dirt on your dress. And the forest is filled with dirt.” He tickled her side, and she bit her lip to hide her giggles from her father and the rest of her family. She smacked away his hands.

She sat back against her pillow, her small brows knit together over her eyes. Finally, she asked, “What old lady are they talking about?”

Peter smiled and leaned forward, as if letting her in on a secret. “A fairy,” he whispered conspiratorially. “One of the women that live inside the forest.”

Carolyn's eyes widened. “Was she beautiful? What did she look like? Did she have leaves for hair? Did she speak in riddles?”

Her brother shook his head. “She looked like a normal old lady, like Nana before she passed away. But tall and sturdy, like a tree.”

“Did you see anyone else?”

For a moment, her brother glanced towards the bedroom door. His eyes flickered back to Carolyn. “No, just her.”

Carolyn gave him her signature pout-scowl. “I wish I could have been there.”

“I know. Maybe next time,” he told her. Then to distract her before she could make him promise, he asked, “How about a story before bed?”

Carolyn leapt up and ran to her bookshelf.

0 notes