#Fine you can call me one of those pickup truck drivers | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

americangrove · 1 month

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Tree by Tree

It was 9:19am when I arrived, so nineteenth minutes later than planned, yet when I stepped out of the car Tim greeted me with such kindness that I forgot to ask pardon for my tardiness. To my left, a tall stand of pines, loblolly and shortleaf, stood beside the driveway; on the other side, growing in the shade cast by those pines were a few longleaf pines, over fifteen feet tall, over fifteen years old but still not evocative of what one would call a tree—that takes time for longleaf to achieve. I was not the only one visiting Tim that morning, his daughter Brittany and her two children, a nine-year-old boy, and a four-year-old girl, were there as well. We all sat down on the porch, except the kids who went off to “saddle” the cats with plastic water pipes.

I first met Tim a few days earlier at a Longleaf Academy, a two-day course in all things related to the tree hosted by the Longleaf Alliance: planting, tending, tax breaks, easements, history, pine straw selling. Before a site visit to see management practices at the Sandhills Game Lands, everyone was asked to carpool; vehicles with off road capabilities were suggested as the ways were mostly loose sand and gravel, some banked high, some potholed low. So, in most went into pickups, SUVs and the like, save those who road with Tim in his Prius. “When you get stuck,” more than one of the other drivers quipped, “don’t worry I got a good tow.” “It’ll go just fine” Tim assured them and his three passengers: a forester, a teacher and myself— indeed Toyota should consider marketing the off-road capacities of the car more as it did go just fine up sand banks, minimal sliding on the ascent.

From his porch (where I see he owns a truck) amidst wind chimes I tell he and Brittany about my work, in turn Tim tells me about his family land, held since the late 19th century, some of it sold off over the years, though still eighty-six acres; his grandkids are the seventh generation of Martins to roam the land— they live down the road, Martin Road, from him. Brittany, an educator, knew the small towns of my childhood over one hundred and fifty miles eastward having taught there through TFA. Now she was back home leading her own school called Wander and Root, whose classroom is the outdoors. When the floor is the ground, the ceiling the sky, and the walls the nearest pine tree, every lesson can start with a “What’s this” or “Look at that” initiated more likely by the roving curiosity of children than by a teacher as suddenly happened while we were talking for Brittany’s son came over to show us an urticating caterpillar he caught on a leaf, its hairs so dense as to look like a forest miniature hitched to a mound of moving flesh. We took his discovery as a call to move, to wander and root in the Martin woods as it were, where Tim would tell of longleaf’s past and present there.

Only steps from the house we stopped in a stand of well settled loblolly pines, some about a foot thick ascendant in the sun, far below were thin hardwoods waiting for their chance for light many of them sweetgum saplings barely knee height; underneath their wide green leaves and under the layers of years of pine needles, though somewhat obscured and quite softened by time, you could see the ground running still in curves— remnants of field terracing for tobacco. The trees above seemed oblivious to the order with which the old crop was planted, but orange blaze marks on the loblolly pines, and indentations on the sweetgums and other hardwood trunks foretold of a new order to come. An orange marked pines would be a pine spared, a tree with an indentation was not only marked for removal but was already dead or dying even if it still carried leaves. Actually, these marking represented two different plans of order. The loblollies were blazed by foresters who came out to Tim’s property to help him select trees to save as he prepared to thin and clear areas for extensive longleaf planting. After the trees were marked, Tim had a deal with a local timber company to come in and do the cutting, clearing and carrying-away, but just when they would have started the business went bust. Eighty-six acres, by most measures, for a private landowner, is a lot of land, but not as much as to be attractive for logging companies in the area. Tim tried but could not secure another timber contract, so he decided to do the clearing himself. Many of the trees on his land have rings around their trunks—girdled by chainsaw, but even more destined to go have just one or two hacks on them, if you did not know what these marks meant you might mistake them for random cleaves of a tepid ax, but these small indentations are targeted and fatal.

In silviculture and forest management the technique is called the hack and squirt method, because in one hand you carry a hatchet in which you hack into a tree, just deep enough to expose its living tissue, and then you squirt—either directly into the cut or onto the hatchet so that it slides down into the cut—an herbicide. In less than a year the tree will defoliate, opening up light to the ground and in subsequent years as the dead tree decays branches will break off and eventually the whole thing will fall. Much less expensive than logging, and less strenuous than chain sawing, the disadvantage of hack and squirt is that it is slower, and if done when trees are moving sap up they will push the herbicide out and go on living (likewise they can also move the herbicide down and effect trees not selected for removal). Assuming about 200 trees to an acre on his land, means he has look at over 17000 trees and decide at each one whether to leave it or kill and then later on whether to clear what has been killed (and of course in the meantime wherever the canopy opens up something is going to start growing that itself may have to be removed later). I thought about Sisyphus for a moment then I thought about Prius— “It’ll go just fine.”

At the edge of the first woods, we came to a clearing on a hill where the shade abruptly ended and the sun touched strong on the ground, a stand of longleaf pine Tim planted fifteen years ago took every ray that fell on them, all of them eager for their next fifteen years. On the path, Brittany’s four-year-old daughter yelped with equal parts delight and dismay pointing to another hairy caterpillar, dead of life but body vibrant with the work of fire ants who, as they dismantled it also seemed to reanimate it. The path sloped downward into a mixed wood whose density was slowly being decreased by hack and squirt, by girdling and by prescribed fires—pale skeletons of holly, not a particularly flame-resistant tree, abounded, while wild grape carpeted the floor in the aftermath of burning; coteries of mushrooms white, pink, orange, giant, small sized, plump and formless proliferated near and far. Amidst it all nearly everywhere we looked were longleaf stumps and left-over longleaf branch knots. These were from old longleaf, cut maybe a century ago after growing for two, three, perhaps even four centuries before that, remnant now as the fragments of a disbanded museum. It is these pieces of the past forest that Tim’s feels warrants his efforts for taking down so many of the trees that grow there now; it was longleaf land before, and he wants it to be longleaf land again.

But it has been a while since longleaf predominated over any part of North Carolina; by the early 20th century it was almost all gone and in the intervening century, not only have other pines and many hardwoods put down roots where they were once out shaded or out fired by longleaf, but so have many other kinds of plants, some of which only began to settle the land in the same decades as Tim’s ancestor did. Emerging out of the forest, we came to another hill that was a clearing which Tim had put longleaf seedling in a few years ago—"was a clearing” for now it was a lake of Bermuda grass (introduced in the mid-18th century from Eurasia), Chinese lespedeza (introduced in 1896 from Japan) and dog fennel (a highly migrant native) that was taller than either of us. We waded in to try to find any surviving seedlings, the delicate leaves of dog fennel, feathery against the skin, breaking as we passed them releasing their odor of carrots and pepper and sweets and green tang all warming over in the sun—“Why would you want longleaf? Lay, be sweet be soft with us?” the slender poison tresses tried to tempt me. But I kept my eyes on the ground along with Tim’s, looking for the seedling trees, all still in their “grass stage” as it is called which made them nearly indistinguishable from all else around, but by parting deep the waves of green around us, we found some holding out at the bottom like benthic anemones. I was thinking what Tim soon said aloud—that the seedling there, though not dead were foregone, trees potentially one hundred feet tall cut short by herbaceous perennials that only rise to a tenth of that (though a speedy rise it is). He’ll likely have to mow the area down and try replanting the pines again.

When we reemerged from the vegetal waters, stepping onto the dry land of a firebreak, Brittany and the grandkids came to say goodbye to us. She held some of the old longleaf knots in her hand, lightered knots, as they are called, good for starting fires which is what she will do with them. Her little girl had picked scuppernongs and offered one each to us, “Spit out the seeds” she said, her face covered in a make-up of mushroom fuzz, grape juice, char, sweat, soil, pine and whatever she grasped and gathered while wandering the woods—it was a kind of earthy cosmetics that might improve all our faces if we wore it. As they started back, Tim and I started down stopping mid-slope to look at the oldest grove of longleaf on the property, offspring probably from parent trees that were cut in the 19th century. Their airy crowns, unimpeded by anything above them is the way Tim wants all his longleaf to be when he looks up, but looking down to their root crowns presented a much less promising image— layers of pinecones, branches, pine straw, and the leaf litter of midstory trees all bundled up with fresh ground trailing vines. This accumulation is called duff. It occurs on any forest floor, but more accrues in a piney wood as needles decompose much slower than leaves. As a kid I often sank my hands into the duff under our loblolly pines for it was like a layer cake of cool earth, dark, dense, damp and near fully decayed at its deepest level with increasing integrity near the top, tan brown, with spent though still stiff needles interwoven. Our layers were only ever a few years old as we rotated where we raked, but Tim suspects the duff around his old longleaf has not been disturbed since the 1920s. Though certainly good for releasing nutrients back down into soil, once it becomes this thick it will not let much back up from soil, especially longleaf seedings, which need to touch bare mineral soil to germinate. Prior to the 20th century’s anti-burning forestry practices (“Only you…”), whatever duff accumulated on the ground would be burned away every few years by fires set either by storm, or more likely by hand, the hands of Native Americans before contact, and the hands of settles who learned and burned after them. The fire would trace the path of needles on the ground, burning slow and shallow, exposing the sandy soil underneath before dying at a ditch, a creek or damp ground. Setting fire to decades worth of duff however is like throwing a Molotov into a paper mill—fire hotter, higher, longer, deeper and deadlier for trees, even fire-tolerant longleaf pines. Nevertheless, Tim had tired it earlier in the year, blowing some of the duff away from the base of the trees first, in the hope that with fuel removed they would not be gridled by fire. Whether this helped or whether the trees were harmed if not lost he is still waiting to see. Most still had green needles, but we saw several green cones on the ground, cones already larger than all other kinds of pinecones in the southeast but still far from being mature and ready to be released from the tree. Had the fire caused the cones to drop prematurely? Or was it squirrels? Or was it something else entirely. Trees often answer our questions no quicker than they grow.

As we walked further down the hill where the fire had sat before a break, I saw a box turtle’s shell, the pattern orange and brown much like the color of duff; there was no turtle inside—not just rooted life gets eaten by the flame, though while the fire consumes individuals it also produces improved habitat for those that survive. Fire in a house is perhaps always a bad thing, but such destruction (or perhaps better “disturbance” as the ecologist calls it) out of doors almost always aids something else’s creation, spread or, in the case of longleaf, return.

With the hill leveling out into bottomland, I could see several large white oaks. Tim never thins these out, but often the wind does by felling them, breaking the shady vault that they buttrees, light consequently flooding in. In these lambent islands Tim often plants longleaf seedling, some doing alright, though loblolly pines always find a way to sneak in around them, while the mid-story shade of sourwood—another species he is thinning out (though leaving some as a favor to bees)—reduces their growth rate. “A forester would tell you that this part of the land is supposed to be oak, sourwood, hickory and the other hardwoods” Tim said, “but all these stumps say differently.” Longleaf stumps, but also longleaf catfaces, as on the higher ground, were scattered around us, the latter raised off the ground to slow their decay so that that could remain a little longer as signs of the piney woods past—its trees and its people—those who made the catfaces on the pine for turpentine and those who maintained the swampy ground for it so that it would not be outcompeted by trees better adapted to moist sites.

Going up once more, we came to a field of an acre or so, deep brown and dry though at its border forest trees green and crowded stood, I imagined, on their toes, not wanting to get their feet wet in the soil under that field which was all brown because of an herbicide—one of the few places that Tim had spread it broad rather than specifically. His mom, eight years away from a century of living, called him; as they spoke, I looked over the desiccated field, the slightest step into it sounded like tap-dancing on crackers. Herbicided grounds make me think of the reset option on video games, the option you reach for when you are so frustrated by lack of direction or progress on a level and you just want to start over—do it well, do it right, do it done the next time around. If it’s a really difficult level the resets might just mount until you quit, or you might finally succeed, promptly forgetting how long it took as you move to the next level. With land though we cannot quit, nor can we forget it for it always reminds us of how present challenges result from past use.

When he finished his phone call we went back into the woods and took a few steps off the trail to see the pink lady slipper orchids he planted. Only the large, paired, tongue like leaves and spent stems were present by late summer, but he showed me a photo of their very showy flowers from earlier that year. Above us, I asked about his tree stand. Back in the 1980s Tim started bowhunting, something he said was not much done at the time. To kill a deer with a bow you have to get a lot closer to it than you do with a rifle, closer than most people probably ever get near deer because either you have to be very quiet when you approach them or (more likely) when they approach you, unbeknownst to them as you wait in the stand. Once proximity is attained there comes the matter of aim. It’s not that you can aim and shoot a deer anywhere with a rifle and then proceed to catch it once it dies, but a bullet has more places it can enter for a mortal wound than an arrow does. It takes time to learn to aim a bow anywhere let alone directing it (ideally) to the deer’s broadside, between its ribs, piercing its heart and both lungs, the arrow continuing clean through the animal as if the penetration was phantasmic, the deer leaping more startled than stunned, not realizing as it stands, as it stammer, as it sits that it is dead. A record of failure is likely a bowhunter’s bounty long before the attainment of a kill. But each failure is also likely a gain for in having to just “stand and stare” while in the woods observing the ways of the prey, observing the ways of the wood, and observing oneself, one enters a kind of out school, perhaps not unlike Brittany’s. Its and education whose lessons in waiting, watching and life-taking are not dissimilar to learning to plant longleaf pines.

Our walk took us back downward, towards the banks of Drowning Creek, where, true to name, you could see several pieces of old longleaf “drowned” in its waters, sometimes you see less sometimes you see more, Tim told me, depending on what the beavers are doing upstream. As there was lots of rivercane around the creek banks, he asked me if I knew how it, like longleaf, once covered expanses that ground bound eyes could only ever incompletely see, in the depths of which snakes, and insects, large cats and birds like the Carolina parakeet made their lives and later lost their lives as this habitat disappeared. “If all I was doing was just for longleaf, it wouldn’t be worth it. I am doing it for everything that lived with longleaf” he told me.

Where the patch of cane ended and further on, I began to see several glass bottles, as if the remnants of a grand party from a century ago, though actually, as Tim explained, they were used to hold up netting over the tobacco crop that once grew here—now they were accidental terrariums filling with ferns. Mixed with the glass bottles were cans, labels wholly rusted, sides often busted, they once held last century’s pest- and herbicides, though unlike the glass bottles, they held nothing inside as if roots refuse to find homes in them.

Loblolly pines, as would be expected (a loblolly is a mire), grew quite well, straight, and thick in the creek wet lowlands. I do not often like to think of trees in terms of timber but knowing that Tim wants to get rid of them for longleaf, I told him that there must be lumbermen somewhere who would take the trees. “Standing money” is what some of my folks call he said, “could probably get about $200 a trunk.” But at this point the thought of big equipment, their noise, their tracks, and the scene that follows their departure suggested an aesthetic and perhaps ethical expense a lot higher than whatever returns he would get in terms of dollars—“I recently learned about a thing they call forest bathing. When I first heard, I thought it meant literal bathing in the woods which seems strange, then I learned more about it. I feel like that is what I have been doing here all along.” I imagine Tim finishing a shift at hospital where he works as a nurse or waking up early on an off day and going outside. He has a hatchet in one hand, and a bottle in the other filled largely with water, and just a little imazapyr, the name of herbicide sounding like some ancient weapon which is this case prevents plants from ever growing again once it gets inside them. As he listens to the sounds of morning birds, he sees the long gray slight ridges of a sweet gum, two chops paired with two spits of the bottle barely rise about the volume of his next footsteps as he passes a white oak, an old loblolly he passes too, at a sourwood he pauses, ponders then the metal and bottle sound off again as they will do before a copse of red maples, and he goes on, and he goes on. Other days the bottle and hatchet lay unused, he goes out with a dibble bar and longleaf seedlings—find a spot, make a hole, plant the seedling not too low, not too high but just right into the ground to give it a chance to become a tree. He baths in a forest that he is bringing down as he sweats after another forest that he wants to raise up.

We leave the woods for the last time emerging behind the barn that sits at the edge of a large clearing on the other side of which we can see Tim’s house. The barn is made of longleaf, ashen gray as all time leached wood becomes, but still dripping resin decades later as only longleaf does in these parts. Tim’s grandfather’s tractor is in the barn, a John Deere from the 50s. It is parked facing the forest which it must have watched day by day succeed from being the fields which it had tilled, harvested, kept low. I wonder what the tractor thinks sitting there looking. Tim respects the lives his forebearers lived, but he does not think that they were good stewards of the land—letting it erode, leaving much debris, stripping the soil of its seed bank to put something in the other kind of bank with the proceeds from tobacco. Though maybe “but” does not fit above, for respecting our ancestor has to mean also criticizing them so that we can see their shortcomings not as a means to seed blame as much as recognize what the present needs in order make grounds for futures in which something will bloom. Tim knows his task will be nowhere near complete at the end of his life—just one lifetime could be spent either trying to fell and clear eighty-six acres of land or planting and tending eighty-six acres of longleaf—but perhaps that is part of the appeal, getting something started that maybe his children and grandchildren will not just remember him by but in way continue to live with him through. Even if just one longleaf that Tim plants survives to the pine’s maximum life expectancy, the Martin’s of the next four hundred years would have a direct witness to him.

It was half past noon when we returned to his house. Inside, I browsed his bookshelf full of guides on birds, plants, and the cultural history of the sandhills. We sat down and Tim handed me a brown paper bag. Written on the outside were the names of about a dozen plants, all of them associated with longleaf pine savannahs, and on the inside where their seeds and seed pods. Knowing that not much memory remains in his soils, seasonally erased by farming, whenever he can, he collects the seed of forbs and grasses from longleaf lands where that memory still blooms (or blooms anew) and he sows them under the longleaf slowly coming up around his home. A whole garden gathered in a lunch bag awaiting receptive grounds. And that was just one of them. As he had already said, he is doing this work not for a tree but for the forest it made, the forest we unmade, and the forest he is trying to make again, day by day, hack by hack, squirt by squirt, tree by tree...

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#essay #landscape #photography #north carolina #longleaf pine #trees #nature writing #written #martinfarm

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my-never-ending-nightmare · 10 months

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Anyone else ever had to make a split-second decision at some point in your life that, despite being the most sensible choice, was so thoroughly questioned and rebuked by somebody that it planted a seed of doubt in the back of your mind that stuck with you and caused you to scrutinize yourself long after everyone else has forgotten about it?

Like, I don’t mean you did (or didn’t) do something that had repercussions for someone else but rather that someone else believed you should have taken a course of action that you believed would have been a bad idea - and yet despite that their point of view stood in such stark contrast to yours that it made you question whether or not you were perceiving things correctly at all?

My own experience with what I’m trying to describe started three years ago when a good friend and I were hanging out one night driving around in my car when, along a stretch of highway in the middle of nowhere, we saw these two dogs walking or running along the shoulder of the road and a pickup truck pulling over in front of them. This dude got out of the truck, quite violently, grabbed them and threw them one at a time into the bed of the truck before getting back in the driver's seat and pulling a U-turn before turning onto the closest side road.

As you can imagine, seeing this was rather alarming and distressing - and my friend wanted me to follow that truck down the side road to try and find out what was happening. So I obliged. And about a kilometer down that road, we found it parked next to a garage or barn of some sort that sat about 13 meters or so away from a house. It was pitchback save for the truck's lights and thus impossible to make out what was happening. But we could hear the dogs barking if I'm not mistaken. Or maybe I'm just imagining that part. But in either case, it was definitely the same truck we had just seen on the highway.

And that's when I had to make that aforementioned split-second decision. Because my friend wanted me to drive right up in there to find out exactly what was going on. And as emotionally inclined as I was to do that, the more rational side of me had to tell her no, that's not a good idea. She was not happy about that. And I don't blame her. Because I found what we had seen to be as upsetting as she did, and I wanted to make sure those dogs were OK just as much as she did. But it's not worth dying over.

I told her that driving up onto some stranger's property a off dirt road in the middle of nowhere at 3 o'clock in the morning was a terrible idea to begin with - but that doing so with the intention of confronting the owner about something was an even worse idea. I told her that there are people in the world who wouldn't even bother asking questions or demanding that you'd leave - the types of people who would only call the cops after they've shot you. And, speaking of police, I told her that trespassing at night is a serious criminal offense around here and that they don't waste time issuing trespass notices or fines: they just take you straight to jail. And then I tried to assure her (and perhaps myself also) that in all likelihood what had happened was that those were his dogs who had escaped/runoff and that he had gone after them in his truck - and that once he had found them he was so frustrated that he was rough with them as punishment.

But this did little to console her. She thought I was being ridiculous - that the things I was worried about were so outlandish that they couldn't possibly happen. But she had no fear at all - and so she said she would go up there and find out what was going on herself. And again, I had to tell her no.

We're leaving.

She wasn't happy about that at all, but I knew I had made the right decision. At least, I knew that then. It wasn't until afterwards that I started to doubt that. And in the weeks, months, and years that followed, I thought about that night a lot. Not every day or anything - but close enough. And whenever something made me think of that night I felt like a fool. I felt like my friend was right. That I was worried about things that were preposterous. And that paranoia was driving me that night - not caution.

This went on for years. Until last spring.

I believe it was late winter when this started happening, but all of a sudden there seemed to be almost daily headlines making international news about people being shot for little to no reason by their neighbors in America. And every time I saw one of these stories my mind went back to that night - but every story was too dissimilar to the situation we faced that night for them to sway me. They all seemed to involve a history of dispute between neighbors that ultimately cumulated in a shooting. It wasn't until I saw the news about that young woman in upstate New York who got lost while driving to a friend's house and pulled into a stranger's laneway so that she could turn around when that stranger, sitting on his porch, fired two shots and killed her right there and then. No questions asked, no demands made.

And suddenly I felt vindicated.

Which is exactly what I felt again today when work had me drive right past the exact road where this all happened between my friend and me all those years ago. Vindicated. Not in a celebratory, I-told-you-so sort of way. But rather a relieved, I'm-not-crazy sort of way. Like, for all those years that night was something that I felt ashamed of and embarrassed about. I had begun to feel like I truly was being ridiculous that night. But now I know I was just trying to keep us both safe - because it turns out the things I had been worried about that night aren't so far-fetched after all.

I'm not crazy. Or maybe I am. But there are other people more crazy than me.

#long post #thoughts

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maximons · 3 years

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Perfect

Summary: Wanda Maximoff and Y/n L/n, two kindred spirits that find themselves drawn to each other. And because of this, they knew their first date wouldn’t be anything less than perfect.

Word Count: 2,462

Genre: College AU, Fluff

Requested?: Yes

A/N: Hope ya’ll like your teeth rotting, cause that’s all this is :)

You first saw Wanda Maximoff in early October.

In hindsight, you couldn’t believe you didn’t notice her sooner. It was in your psychology class on a Friday afternoon. The class was required for your major, and it was also your last class of the day and the last one of the week, so you weren’t the most excited to be there. You leaned back in your chair, pen twirling in your hand, listening to the professor drone on about...something. You weren’t really paying attention.

You assumed she asked a question, because a few stray hands shot up in the air. One was selected, and a voice started speaking.

And, oh wow...you were paying attention now.

The beautiful voice was deeper, raspy. It held your attention, pulling you in even if you didn’t want to be, which you very much did. What intrigued you the most was the slight accent that was laced within it. You couldn’t pinpoint where it was from exactly, but you would guess European. Eastern European maybe.

Hypnotizing.

“Thank you, Miss Maximoff, that was actually very insightful.” You snapped back into reality at the sound of your professors voice. You leaned back into your seat, eyes drifting over to the owner of the voice.

You couldn’t see her face, as you were seated in the back of the lecture hall and she was closer to the front, but your gaze was met with a beautiful head of flowing red hair. You could tell that it wasn’t natural, most likely dyed, but it didn’t make it any less gorgeous. Right then and there, you made it a goal to get closer to this girl. You brought the tip of your pen to your lips, biting on it slightly. A smile grew on your face, still staring at the back of her head.

“Well, hello Miss Maximoff.”

The opportunity to talk to her arose the next week. You walked into class, few minutes earlier than you usually did, eyes scanning the room. You were happy to see the head of red hair that plagued your mind for the last few days already in her seat. This time though, you got to see her face. Your jaw dropped slightly.

She’s beautiful.

You snapped yourself out of it, not wanting to risk getting caught staring. You casually made your way through the room and up a few steps. However, instead of going to your usual seat in the back of the hall, you plopped yourself down into the seat next to hers.

You slid your bag off your shoulder, shoving it under the table in front of you, staring forward. You noticed the redhead turn her gaze towards you, wondering why you were sitting there you were sure. After a few moments, her gaze still lingered on you, so you took a chance and turned you head. You gave her a small smile.

“Hey.” You said quietly, as casual as you could. You didn’t want her to think you were some kind of stalker, sitting next to her just to get close to her.

Well, yeah that’s what you were doing, but you didn’t want her to get the wrong idea.

She simply responded with the same smile and greeting before turning her attention back towards the front of the room. Just then, your professor walked in and the lecture started.

After about a half hour of half listening, your ears perked up at the next thing out of her mouth. “Alright, get into pairs and discuss.”

Yes! This was your chance. Normally you hated group work, especially in this class since none of your friends shared it with you, but today you were excited.

You turned your head towards the redhead only to find her looking at you. You gave her a nervous chuckle. “You wanna...” You trailed off, but she caught on to what you were saying on saying and nodded. You smiled. “I don’t think we’ve met before, I’m Y/n.” You straightened yourself up, holding out your hand for her to take.

She chuckled as she took it. “I know. Dr. Logan keeps scolding you for not paying attention.” She teased, accent present as ever. You laughed nervously.

“That’s me.” She laughed a little more at that, and man you loved the sound.

“I’m Wanda.”

You smiled. Wanda Maximoff. What a name.

You started discussing the topic at hand, conversation flowing pretty easily between you two. You quickly caught on to how her accent would thicken when saying certain words. You hung onto every word that flowed out of her mouth. She was also incredibly smart and insightful, but not in a condescending or pretentious way. She was perfect.

You were a goner.

The next few weeks you would continue sitting next to her, and finding reasons to talk to her. You became each others go to partners for class activities. You even formed a friendship outside of class, slowly making your way from acquaintances to friends. You introduced her to your friend group, and she did to hers. You hung out everyday, even began to crash at each others places, it was amazing.

The end of the semester quickly approached, and you were packing your bags to go home for winter break. You and Wanda swore to keep in contact and talk as much as you could. Before you officially left campus though, you had to do something in person. You made your way to Wanda’s dorm and knocked. She answered, and before she could get a word out, you asked the question that’s been on the tip of your tongue for months.

“Do you want to go out with me?”

You knew it was a last minute request, but you didn’t want to do it over the phone. And when you got to see her smile grow as she nodded excitingly, you knew it was the right choice.

You never got around to setting a day because her twin brother, Pietro, was essentially rushing her out of the building, ready to go home. She called over her shoulder that she would call you. And she did as soon she could.

You both decided that you would wait until spring semester and go to the nice restaurant that was in town, it was a popular date sight for those in your school. It sounded like a plan.

But two weeks later, you decided you had a better one.

Wanda was a free spirit, and you were pretty unconventional yourself. Dinner dates were more for couples that didn’t know each other well and wanted to have their first meeting in a public setting. That wasn’t you two. You were great friends already, and you didn’t want to be stuck in the confines of the etiquette of the restaurant. You wanted to be 100% yourself, and you wanted her to be as well.

Wanda was very confused when you asked her where she lived and if she was free tomorrow night. She knew you were up to something, but she didn’t know what. When she asked, you simply said “Trust me.” And she did.

Wanda only lived an hour and a half from you. Perfect. Easy drive.

The next night, you grabbed the keys to the pickup truck that you shared with your dad. You packed what you think you two would need, and then you took off.

An hour and a half later, you arrived at Wanda’s place. Whoa. She practically lived in a mansion. Someone neglected to tell you that she was loaded. You laughed to yourself, thinking of the ways you could tease her about it later. You parked your truck a little ways down the street, so it wasn’t immediately noticeable to the residents inside. You got out and made your way over to the back of the truck. You leaned against it, and pulled out your phone.

“Hey, Y/n!” Wanda answered excitingly, and you couldn’t help but smile.

“Hello there, Miss. Maximoff. What are you up to this fine evening?” You said in a terribly butchered British accent, but Wanda found it amusing and laughed.

“Nothing much, I just got out of the shower.”

“Ah, perfect. Say, instead of getting ready for bed...you might wanna put something warm on.”

Wanda furrowed her brow in confusion, but smiled at your antics. You were up to something. “What did you do?”

“Me? Oh nothing, why would you think that?” You said in mock hurt, and she laughed again. “But I wouldn’t mind it if you made your way outside...” You trailed off, and before Wanda could ask why. You hung up.

A few minutes later, Wanda walked outside. She was dressed casually, jeans and a red sweater. She had her white coat pulled tightly around her, and she tugged on her black scarf as she walked down the walkway.

Absolutely beautiful.

Confusion was plastered on her face, she looked around for a moment, not understanding why she wanted you to go outside. She pulled out her phone, ready to call you again, when she heard a loud honk. She made her way down the street towards the sound, and she gasped slightly when she saw you.

“Oh my god!” She exclaimed and started running towards you. She jumped up into your arms, legs wrapping around you in a tight hug. Both of you sported wide smiles as you laughed. After a few moments, Wanda hopped off of you, smile still wide as she looked at you. “What are you doing here!?”

“Well, I know we talked about how we’d go down to the restaurant, which we can still do if you want to, but I figured...it wouldn’t be us if we didn’t go for a little adventure for our first date.”

Wanda smiled. She was also thinking something similar, but she wanted this to work with you, so she thought she’d play it safe for the first date. She should’ve known better though, because you were you. You didn’t care for societal norms, you played everything by ear, and you faced life head on and in the moment. You were perfect to her. “And where would we be going, Miss L/n?”

“Well, that’s the best part.” You started as you opened the passenger door for Wanda. “I have no idea. We’ll let the road guide us.” You made a gesture to the road, causing the redhead to laugh.

“Alright, Y/n. Show me the way.” You smiled as you helped her in the truck. You closed the door, and made your way over to the drivers seat, taking off a moment later.

About two hours later, you were still on the road. You didn’t know exactly where you were, and you didn’t care. All you cared about was the beautiful girl beside you. You’ve been engaged in various conversations throughout the night, some playful, some serious, but all of them were amazing. You could talk to this woman for the rest of your life and you would never get bored.

You were making your way through a tunnel, and since it was nearing 1am by this point, it was only you. Wanda shot you a mischievous look ad she hit the button to the truck’s sunroof. You chuckled. “Whatcha doing there?”

“You ever wonder what it would feel like to fly?”

“Who hasn’t?”

“Well this...” Wanda clicked her seatbelt off and carefully stood on the seat. “Is the closest you can get to it.” She stood up, sticking the upper half of her body out of the roof.

You panicked for a moment. You were driving pretty fast, and were sure this was unsafe. You didn’t want anything to happen to her. You were about to say something, but then Wanda let out a boisterous laugh. “This is amazing!” She let out a scream of excitement. “Y/n, turn the music up!”

You couldn’t help but smile. This woman was truly amazing. You couldn’t bring yourself to worry about the safety measures when she was enjoying herself like this. You obliged and turned the radio up, and Wanda began singing along to the words and, oh wow...

If you thought her speaking voice was captivating...her singing voice was just something else entirely. You were smiling as wide as you possibly could, enjoying this moment.

It was perfect.

Soon enough though, the end of the tunnel was approaching. There was a metal bar that hung low, so you decided now was the time to pull her back. You tugged on her pant leg. “Okay, Supergirl, get back in here before your head gets torn off.” You laughed, and Wanda soon dropped back in her seat, laughing with you.

You wanted to get a good look at the girl sitting next to you, have a conversation where you could pay attention to her entirely and not having to split your focus. “You up for one more stop?” You asked. Wanda nodded excitingly.

“Of course.”

You drove for about five more minutes when you spotted a small vacant park. You pulled over to the side of the road and park, and got out. You opened the door open for Wanda again, and helped her get out. You then made your way to the backseat and pulled out the blankets you decided to bring, before walking with Wanda to the center of the park.

You laid down one of the blankets on the grass, and when you both laid down on it, you pulled the other one on top of you.

You spent the next half hour or so in deep conversation, staring at the stars. You didn’t want this night to end, but when you saw Wanda let out a yawn, you figured it would have to soon.

“Alright, we should start heading back. We gotta get you to bed, Miss Bezos.” Wanda smacked your arm at you poking fun at her financial status. “Actually, I’m sure you have a private jet that can pick us up. where’s Alfred at?” You both laughed harder as Wanda hit you again. You two began wrestling, play fighting with each other, when eventually you let Wanda win. She rolled on top of you, pinning you down.

You continued laughing for a few more moments, before it died down. You were both then very aware of your position and blushed. You looked into each others eyes for a moment, and then Wanda began speaking.

“Tonight was just...so perfect. Thank you, Y/n.” She said softly, and you smiled.

“Of course.”

You stayed there, staring into each others eyes for another moment, before Wanda started leaning down. You picked your head up, meeting her in the middle, and your lips locked in a soft kiss. You both smiled as you deepened the kiss.

This was for sure the perfect end to a perfect evening.

#wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff imagine #wanda maximoff x you

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anniesocsandgeneralstore · 3 years

Text

Tattoo/Flower Shop AU: Roses Are Red (AU!Rick Flag x AU!OC)

Summary: Flower shop owner Delphia is thinking about getting a tattoo, good thing one of her cashiers also happens to work part-time at the tattoo parlor down the street. That really scary-looking one owned by the ex-Marine that put the fear of God in Delphia every time she saw him. Great.

Pairing: TattooArtist!Rick Flag x Florist!OC (Delphia Holman)

Word Count: 5282

Warnings: fluffff, language, needle/blood mention, Rick Flag with lots of tattoos

if i go masterlist

A/N: I know jack shit about tattoos cause I've never gotten one, this is all only assumptions I've made from watching stupid tattooing reality TV. So sorry if something is inaccurate lol

Delphia cocked her head to one side as she stared at the floral arrangement before her. She had been working on this one piece for way too long. This shipment of bridal flowers should have been in Abner’s truck twenty minutes ago to get to the wedding venue on time. But Delphia wasn’t going to stop until everything was perfect. It was her job after all. This piece she was working on just so happened to be the centerpiece of the sweetheart table at the reception. With big, open carnations in pastel pink and pops of bright orange cosmos backdropped giant fern leaves. Not exactly her top choices for this color combo but the bride gets what the bride wants.

“You finished with those bridesmaid bouquets?” Delphia asked her apprentice.

“Yes.” Cleo held one up for her to see. “What do you think?”

“They look beautiful. Let’s get all this out to Abner.”

The lanky delivery driver was leaning against the white panel van with “The Little Flower Market '' splashed across the side in the alleyway behind the shop. He lept up from looking at his phone, however, when he heard the metal back door clang open.

“Took you long enough!” he chastised as he quickly moved to help.

He put the usual brick in front of the door to hold it open for Delphia and Cleo whose arms were laden with bouquets, arrangements, and corsages. It was only May, but Delphia could feel that dreaded and beloved season coming on. Wedding season. When her tiny shop in that tiny town made the most money, her creative juices got to flow the most, and when she felt like she never got to sit down. It was all worth it though to live out her dream of being a florist and owning her own shop.

“Sorry, sorry!” Delphia sighed as she helped load everything into the back of the van. “Took longer than expected. You can tell the wedding coordinator that I’ve thrown in an extra arrangement for being late.”

“S’not gonna make them any less angry at me but fine.”

Delphia watched with her hands on her hips as Abner got into the driver's seat and pulled out of the alleyway. She really hoped that none of the vases broke this time and Abner wouldn’t have to call frantically for her to come fix it. With one last sigh, she turned and went back inside the shop.

The backroom was a mess of trimmed stems and flowers with petals too crumpled to use in any of the arrangements. As she looked around at the mess, and Cleo sitting off in the corner on her phone, a sudden exhaustion pulled at the backs of her eyes. Cleaning could wait another fifteen minutes. Surely.

A groan pushed itself past her lips as she lowered herself onto one of the step stools used to reach the vases stored on the higher shelves. Yep, she was starting to feel that wedding season ache in her knees. She pulled out her phone and started scrolling, not even really caring what she was looking at, her mind lost somewhere else. Focused on the next task and the task after that and the task after that. Clean up the back room. Check the online orders for the day. Make those online orders and have them ready for pickup or delivery tomorrow. Clean up the mess from that. Take stock of what flowers are in the shop and place an order for what they need. Call all those wedding coordinators on her waitlist.

“You wanna get a tat?” a high, curious voice suddenly asked loudly in Delphia’s ear.

She jumped, nearly throwing her phone from her hands as she turned to see dipdyed pigtails and red painted lips smiling at her. Harley Quinn. Her newest hire. Just someone to watch the register and hopefully convince visitors to the shop to actually buy something instead of just browsing. The normal facade Harley had put up during her interview was misleading. But at least she kept things interesting when she was around.

Delphia put a hand to her beating heart. “Jesus, Harley! You’re supposed to be watching the front!”

“No one’s come in for like thirty minutes.” Harley waved a hand. “So, you wanna tattoo or what?”

“I, uh — “ Delphia looked down at her phone, she was in fact looking at tattoo inspirations. “ — I’ve been thinking about it, yeah.”

Harley looked over her shoulder at the images she had pulled up with pursed lips and bright eyes narrowed. It amazed Delphia how that woman sometimes looked like a cartoon character instead of a real human person.

“Hmm, not really my style. You should talk to Ricky!”

Right. Harley’s other job. Part-time tattoo artist at the parlor down the street, only a few doors down actually. The Illustrated Man. She had seen “Ricky” a few times, especially at the end of the day when they were closing up shop at the same time. And she most definitely did not want to talk to him. He was an ex-Marine, towering wall of muscle with tattoos covering nearly every inch of skin that hung out of the t-shirts he seemed to wear everyday. He scared the shit out of her and the closest she had ever gotten to him was maybe twelve feet.

“C-Can’t you just do it, Harley? I’ve heard you’re really good.”

“Not my style babe. You wanna tattoo of a cartoon burrito on your ass, you call me up though.” Harley seemed to notice her boss’s hesitation and insisted, “You really want that tattoo?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Delphia replied as she wrung her hands together, turning the flesh a bright red.

“Then you gotta talk to Ricky — the ones you’re lookin’ at match his style perfectly.”

The door to The Illustrated Man tattoo parlor looked heavy, wooden and painted a dark, faded shade of green. There was a large pane of glass to the right of the door that allowed Delphia a peek inside the parlor. On the glass, the name of the place and their logo, a man with arms outstretched covered head to toe in little black markings, was painted on with painstaking precision. The neon sign up in the corner said they were open, the hours pasted to the door confirming it was so.

But still, Delphia stood there clutching the strap of the purse she had thrown over her shoulder tightly. Ringing it in her palms to the point it hurt. She wasn’t nervous about getting the tattoo. She had been thinking about this for a long time, but the conversation she had with Harley just pushed her over the edge to finally do it. And she had plenty of time. It was Monday, The Little Flower Market was closed to give her at least the semblance of a weekend. No — she was most definitely still just terrified to actually talk to the owner of the tattoo parlor.

Stealing the last bits of her courage, Delphia pushed open the heavy wooden door and walked inside. The bell above the threshold dinged loudly when she entered. It wasn’t as scary on the inside as she thought it was going to be. It was nearly inviting. There was rock music playing softly over the speakers. The floor was tiled black and white, the walls covered in artwork. From pictures of tattoos on various parts of people's bodies, to simple drawings, to pictures of what appeared to be fairly famous people after getting their tattoos done in the shop. She moved in closer to the wall, inspecting with narrowed eyes a picture of what appeared to be “Ricky” and Chris Evans. He had been in town? How the hell had she missed that?

She nearly jumped when a set of heavy footsteps echoed from further in the parlor.

“Can I help you?”

Jesus, even his voice was terrifying. All deep and gruff with a slight southern drawl. Delphia audibly gulped as she watched him walk through the parlor to the lobby. He was somehow even taller and wider up close, shoulders broad and straining underneath the black t-shirt he had on. Her eyes couldn’t decide what to focus on. His arms were covered in black ink, swirling and crashing together in a weird kind of harmony. Even the backs of his hands were tattooed with massive roses, his fingers covered by faded roman numerals. As he came to a halt behind the front desk, she could finally see what that tattoo on his neck was: three swallows, hemmed by a golden chain tucked under his shirt.

It was only when he was behind the counter, palms flat and an eyebrow raised, that she finally realized that she was supposed to say something to him.

“I — uh — I — “

“Dee, baby! I thought I heard ya!” Harley came bounding out of the back with a grin, skidding to a halt at the front desk with an outstretched hand. “Ricky this is my other boss Delphia — that lady who owns the flower shop down the street. Told her to come to you for her tat.”

Somehow that brow lifted even higher as he looked from Harley back to her.

“Delphia.” The way her name rolled off his tongue sounded like honeyed bourbon. “Where’s that from — the name?”

“It’s er — it’s Greek. After the myth of the Oracle of Delphi.”

“S’pretty,” he mumbled, making a furiously hot blush spread across her cheeks, before he stuck out his hand towards her, “Name’s Rick.”

“Nice to meet you.”

Her nose scrunched at how little her voice sounded. Her fingers barely wrapped around his hand, it was so big. But it was warm and calloused and had her blushing all over again. God, why was she acting like this? She was never like this. She was never shy or flustered. But he stared at her with eyes she couldn’t tell the color of and a slight, humorous quirk to his lips and her tongue felt heavy in her mouth. When she let go of him, his eyes flicked up and down her body, sizing her up. Did she have to choose to wear that green pair of overalls like some sort of oversized toddler today? He definitely wasn’t going to think that was cool. Wait — why did she care if this guy thought she was cool or not?

“So — “ Rick bent down behind the front desk and pulled out a thick binder, dropping it down on the countertop with a bang. “ — What’r’ya lookin’ for? Birds? A quote? An anchor?”

“Uh, no. No. I kinda had…I was thinking about…I want something different…”

“Ugh! Come on, Dee, spit it out already!” Harley groaned, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “”You’re killing me with the anticipation here!”

“Yeah, you’re killing us with the anticipation,” Rick deadpanned.

Delphia snorted out a laugh, her hand instantly clapping over her mouth in embarrassment. Her eyes met Rick’s and he winked. He winked at her and she felt red hot all over. She coughed awkwardly into her hand and then pointed down at her exposed inner forearm.

“I want a rose held up by a skeletal hand. Offering it like they’re in love,” she said.

The gears were turning in Rick’s head. She could practically see it behind those dark hazel eyes. Then he smacked the countertop and turned towards the back of the parlor.

“Come with me — let me draw somethin’ up for ya.”

He gestured for Delphia to follow and then he was sauntering away, long strides carrying him easily across the tiled floor, steel toed boots thumping with each step. She walked around the front desk hesitantly, purse strap wrung between her fingers once more. But then Harley was smiling at her, squealing in excitement as she took hold of Delphia’s shoulders and gave them a reassuring squeeze. Right. There was nothing to worry about. It was just a tattoo that was going on her body forever — getting drawn by someone she may no longer be scared of but was definitely starting to be confused by.

Harley guided her to what she could only assume was the tattoo parlor’s backroom. There were a few wornout couches stuffed inside, a fridge, and a tall table shoved against one wall scattered with barstools. Rick was sitting at this table, flipping open a tablet and twirling the stylist between his long fingers.

“Ugh, Dee, your tattoo’s gonna be amazing! I can feel it in my tootie!” Harley said as she twirled around the couch and eventually flopped into a seat.

There was a sputtering noise from the opposite end of the couch. Delphia looked over to see a black man with a closely shaved head and beard coughing into his hand, a bottle of cream soda in the other.

“You can feel it — “ He coughed again. “ — In your what?”

“In my tootie!” Harley repeated, “It’s like my soul but…Better.”

“You’re full’a bullshit, Quinn. Sounds like your ass to me.”

“I am not full of bullshit! The tootie, DuBois, is a very real thing and I can — “

“Guys, will you behave?” Rick spoke up, “Gotta new client here and I’d rather you not scare her off.”

DuBois looked over the back of the couch at Delphia. He stared at her for a moment and then a knowing look passed over his face. His finger came up and pointed at her.

“Hey, you’re the flower lady.” DuBois’ expression dropped to dead serious. “Your peonies did shit to save my marriage.”

Delphia’s face scrunched in confusion. “You picked peonies? Seriously?”

On the edge of her hearing, she heard Rick’s chuckle before he spoke, “Don’t you have a client coming in, DuBois?”

He looked down at his watch. “Not for another — “

The bell above the door rang loudly even from all the way back there.

“Fuck me,” DuBois groaned as he got up from the couch, setting down his drink on his way out the door.

Delphia could hear him talking jovially with his client out in the lobby as she continued to stand just inside the doorway. Really unsure of where she was supposed to be. Rick seemed to notice this, looking up from the drawing on the tablet and waving her to come over.

“Here — take a seat. M’almost done.”

Taking a deep breath, she settled into the stool next to him. For a man with such big, rough hands, his fingers held the stylist delicately as he moved it across the screen. His strokes were all deliberate and confident, not an ounce of second guessing in any of them. Of their own accord, Delphia’s eyes traveled up those inked arms until she finally landed on his face. She had been so distracted by those damn tattoos, she hadn’t even noticed how handsome he really was. Hadn’t noticed that sharp line of his jaw, those distinguished cheekbones, the slight facial hair on his upper lip and chin, his slicked back hair that he pushed back from time to time as he kept his eyes locked on his work. Jesus, those eyes. What color even was that? Brown? Green? Honey? She had no idea and yet she was obsessed with it. Seeing the details of him, he was far less scary now. He looked kind. Maybe a little rough around the edges but definitely not as terrifying as all those nights out on the street.

“Seen you before, you know,” Rick mumbled as he continued to draw, eyes flicking over at her, “Closin’ up your shop.”

“Yeah, I, uh — I’ve seen you, too. Gonna be honest, you’re kinda terrifying on a dark and empty street.” She smiled when he laughed. She made him laugh. “Doesn’t help that you’d just stand there while I walked to my car.”

It was barely noticeable, but she could see his cheeks pink as he hunkered down closer to the tablet. “I was — uh — I was makin’ sure you got to your car okay. Sorry…If it was creepy.”

“Oh.”

Delphia felt too stunned to say anything else. This complete and total stranger, a man she maybe locked eyes with once and had most definitely scurried away from, after a long day at work, hung back to make sure that she got to her car safely. She could practically feel her heart malt, her insides turning to goo at such a kind and silent gesture. She wanted to thank him, but it was too late. He finished with the sketch and was turning the tablet for her to see. Another time perhaps.

“Whaddaya think?” he asked, brow furrowed curiously as he pushed the tablet closer to her.

“It’s perfect,” she breathed, “It’s exactly how I saw it in my head. I love it.”

And it really was. It was everything she was hoping for and more. He even got the positioning of the skeletal hand just right. Rick smiled as he took the tablet back, prepping his drawing to be sent off to the stencil printer.

“Awesome. Do you want any colors in this?”

Delphia cocked her head to one side as she looked at the drawing again. “No. I don’t think so. Just black is fine.”

“Thought roses were supposed to be red,” Rick commented as he got up from his stool, making his way over to the printer in the corner.

“Oh, roses can be whatever color you want,” she replied, “I’ve got some green ones down in the shop if you wan’em.”

“Green? Seriously?”

She shrugged, twisting in her stool so she could watch him stand next to the printer with his hands on his hips, somehow making him look even more broad than before. “Yeah. Get a little food coloring in water, put a white rose in and poof — a few hours later you’ve got a green rose.”

Rick just shook his head with a smile. She decided, with a grin of her own, that she liked when he did that. Made all those hard edges disappear and that kindness in his eyes blossom. It made this warmth radiate in her chest. Like playing in the backyard of her childhood in autumn, knowing that there was hot apple cider waiting for her inside. It made her long to see him smile more, to make him laugh. It made her yearn for his stories, the history behind each of those tattoos and maybe even more. It made —

Oh. Oh, dear.

“Alright — we’ve got the stencil.” He held up the piece of paper hashed with transferable purple ink before he cut off the excess. “Let’s head over to my chair.”

Rick led the way back out into the parlor, Delphia trailing behind with a now permanent blush adorning her cheeks. DuBois was working on a guy closer to the front door, a giant tribal back piece that looked absolutely painful to Delphia. The heat faded from her face when she noticed all the blood that DuBois wiped from the man’s skin after a good pass of his needle. And Harley, who Delphia hadn’t even noticed leaving the backroom, was working on a girl’s foot and she was practically screaming in pain. Nerves bunched up in her gut like a cat caught in the yarn basket.

Stopping at a black leather chair much like a dentist would have, Rick turned back to look at her with a smile. But that grin was quickly wiped from his face when he seemed to notice Delphia’s sudden apprehension.

“Hey, you good?” he asked, putting a hand on her shoulder.

The weight of his palm was heavy and calming. But that girl was still moaning in pain and Delphia really, really didn’t want these people to see her pass out or hear her own noises of discomfort.

“I — is there….I don’t — can we — ?”

Every variation on the question she tried seemed to get lost somewhere between her brain and her mouth. But Rick got it.

“We’ll go to a private room, okay? Prolly be more comfortable in there.”

Delphia nodded frantically. He led her to a door off to the side that had “Tattoo In Progress” painted into the frosted glass. Rick opened the door and allowed her to step inside first. In this little room, with just the chair and a cart with the tattoo gun, the noises in the main parlor instantly faded. Delphia took a calming breath, but her heart was still pounding as she set down her bag and lowered herself into the leather seat.

“You a virgin?” Rick asked as he sat down on the rolling chair in front of her.

She blinked at him in surprise. “Am I a what?”

“A virgin,” he repeated on a chuckle as he put on a pair of black lattex gloves, “Never been inked.”

“Oh, Jesus — no, I’ve never had a tattoo before.”

Rick pulled out some lotion and a razor. He was gentle as he propped up her left arm the way he wanted and put the lotion onto the skin of her inner arm. He asked her to rub it in and after he started with the razor.

“Gotta tolerance for pain?” he asked as he dropped the razor into a metal dish.

Delphia considered it for a moment, eyes trained on the cleaning foam he squirted on her flesh and rubbed in gently. Concentrated on how his touch made her entire body feel like it was on fire. She was having a really hard time remembering why she thought he was scary in the first place and at the same time cursing herself for not meeting him sooner.

“I mean — I’ve snipped off the tips of my fingers with garden shears plenty of times. Gotten a lotta stitches.” She swallowed thickly as he lined the stencil up just how he wanted it and pressed the design into her skin. “Most people don’t notice, but the middle finger on my left hand is down to the middle knuckle. Sorry — I….don’t know why I just told you that.”

Rick peeled back the stencil slowly and with a small smile. “S’Alright, I don’t mind. I did notice and I was gonna ask eventually, so…”

“The story’s not that great I promise. Oh, God.”

He had pulled out the tattoo gun, plugged in and ready to be dipped in ink. Ready to start working that ink into her skin, stabbing her more than a million times and injecting it just beneath the surface of her flesh. She was always fine with needles, she didn’t know why her heart was pounding in her chest or why her leg had started to bounce. Once he started she was sure it was going to be fine. But God did that gun look terrifying and what if the pain was more than she could bear?

And Rick, somehow so attentive to her emotions and somehow knowing exactly what she needed, put a hand to that thigh that bounced nervously. It instantly stilled as he gave the forgiving flesh a soft squeeze. His hand nearly eclipsed the entire expanse of her thigh, fingers digging into the corduroy of her overalls in such a reassuring and comforting way. He didn’t have to do this. He could so easily lose his patience and tell her that if she didn’t want it she could get out. Stop wasting his time. But he cared. He cared enough to look up at her with eyebrows raised and that kindness in those unfathomable eyes.

“Hey, it’s okay.” His voice was still that southern rasp, but it was gentle, soft. “Plenty of time to back out if you really don’t wanna do this.”

“I do — I want it. Sorry. I don’t know why I feel so freaking nervous. Were-Were you nervous?”

Without even thinking her fingers trailed over that hand on her thigh. Brushed over the faded roman numerals, traced the petals of the elaborate rose on the back of his hand, followed the trail of the green snake coiled around his forearm. She watched the muscle there flex beneath her touch — felt as his fingers dug into her just a bit tighter. She looked back into his face to find his eyes boring into her, searching for something she wasn’t entirely sure of. But she hoped he would find it. Uncover it with greedy hands and keep it close to his chest forever.

“My first tat?” he finally said, with her hand settled around his thick wrist, “Yeah. I was nervous.”

Delphia grinned. “You’re lying.”

“Yeah, I am — but I’m tryin’ to make you feel better. So just believe it for now.”

“I don’t think you get nervous about anything,” she told him honestly, quietly.

“Well, trust me, I do.” He gave her leg one last squeeze before letting go and picking up a paper towel. Dipping the tattoo gun in black ink he poised it over her skin. “I’m gonna start now, okay?”

“Okay.”

The following day, Delphia was back to making floral arrangements in the backroom of her shop. The day before feeling like some sort of weird dream she had yet to wake up from. But there was evidence clearly written on her arm. Covered by a clear second skin Rick told her not to take off for at least a month in order for it to heal the best. The tattoo turned out beautifully. It barely even hurt once he started. The black ink of that rose and skeletal hand in such stark contrast to her pale skin. Rick was so pleased with his work he actually took a picture of it, telling her he was going to add it to his book later. It really was like a dream. She had stumbled out of the parlor yesterday feeling like she had just woken up, a goofy sort of smile stretching her lips with the feeling of his hands on her still prickling all over.

But it was also a dream she had barely had the time to think about. After her day off, online orders had piled up. So she had been in the backroom nearly the entire day trying to fill as many orders as she could, Cleo trying to keep pace beside her. Thankfully, it was finally the end of the day. Everyone else had gone home for the night. There were only ten more minutes till close and Delphia was working on the last arrangement. And what a sweet one to end on.

The notes on the order said that it was for their fortieth wedding anniversary and he wanted it to look as much like her original bridal bouquet as possible. Seeing the request had nearly made Delphia tear up. It was turning out beautifully. Lavender hydrangeas, mauve dahlias, orange ranunculus, and midnight eucalyptas made for a beautiful combination. She snipped off the last bit of excess leaves just before the bell above the door rang loudly through the tiny shop.

Delphia groaned as she looked down at her watch. Seriously? Someone was coming in right now? When all she wanted to do was turn out the lights and go home to take a bath?

She put on her best smile though as she turned to go out to the main room. “We close in five minutes just so you…Know.”

Rick looked so odd standing in her brightly colored shop. All those pops of color from the flowers surrounding him in stark contrast to the all black outfit he was sporting. Oh, so it wasn’t a dream. She met that scary man who owned the tattoo parlor a few doors down and found that he wasn’t so scary at all. He was kind and caring and so roguishly handsome it was nearly obscene. He told her stories while he gave her her first tattoo. He made her laugh so hard she cried. And now he was standing in her flower shop looking so uncertain, head tilted down with the smallest smile, and her heart was fluttering with the anticipation for something. She just wasn’t entirely sure what that something was yet.

“Can I help you?” Delphia asked as she moved to stand behind the counter, hands smoothing over her bright blue apron.

“Yeah, uh — takin’ this girl out on a date tonight.” He stepped further into the shop. “Got any suggestions?”

The way he’s looking at her, all soft and knowing, like there was a secret joke between them, it couldn’t be anyone else. It had to be her. Her smiling teeth came down hard on her bottom lip as her eyes tipped towards the counter. Unable to look at him for too long without feeling like dancing in some sort of girlish joy.

“Depends.” She walked around the counter, cheeks flushed as she gestured towards the wall of metal bins filled with freshly cut flowers. “What does she like?”

“Roses.” His eyes flicked down to her arm, to that tattoo he had slaved over for six hours. “As far as I can tell.”

“Hmm, I’ve got plenty of green ones?” Delphia suggested with a grin as she walked over to the wall covered in roses.

“God, no,” he laughed, “Roses are supposed to be red.”

“Fine, fine. How many you want?”

“Just the one, thanks.”

Delphia pulled a single red rose from the correct bin, out of habit bringing it to her nose to make sure it had enough of that signature scent. It wasn’t until she turned around to head back to the cash register that she noticed that Rick had been staring at her. A boyish grin on his face and hands on his hips. Her blush was furious as she moved back behind the counter.

“So, where you takin’ this girl?” she asked as she rung up the flower.

“Dinner,” he answered as he pulled out his wallet, “That little Italian place off fourth.”

“Good choice. My favorite place in town actually.”

Those calloused fingers brushed over her own as he handed over the exact change. It made her breath hitch and butterflies hatch in her stomach.

Rick’s eyebrows lifted as he smiled. “Really?”

“Yeah.” She handed over the rose. “You nervous?”

He took it from her gently, careful not to prick himself on the thornes. Twirling it between his forefinger and thumb, he grinned at her sheepishly. From across the counter, she could see a pink hue crawling up his neck and overpowering his ears. It was adorable.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been so nervous in my life,” he admitted finally.

“I believe you this time.” Without taking the time to second guess herself, Delphia inched her hand over the counter and ghosted her fingers over those roman numerals, danced over the rose on the back of his hand. “So, uh — You really gonna ask me or what?”

He stared down at her hand as it wrapped around his wrist. So small and delicate compared to his rough, broad hands. Though her fingers were probably covered in more scars than his were. He watched for a moment, and so did she. That contrast. His skin darkened by faded ink and her fingers adorned with candy colored rings. It wasn’t until that moment that she realized how different he was from her. He was all black and leather and tattoos. She was bright colors and fleece — but maybe she was tattoos too. Maybe it could work. Maybe. Hopefully.

“Will you go on a date with me, Delphia?”

“Yeah. I think I will.”

Taglist (if you would like to be tagged in future installments, just let me know!): @bbygrgu @a-reader-and-a-writer @slayerx147 @xoxabs88xox @kasey-puff @witchygagirl @the-pink-petite-princess @blooo0ooop @woodlandmouth @csigeoblue @rexorangecouny @h-hxgirl @thisisthewayrose @blondiekook @darkestbeforethedawn16 @runic-belova @weallhaveadestiny @oopsiedoopsie23 @nerdgrrlramblings @ocfairygodmother @reysorigins

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poguesofthebau · 3 years

Text

paranoia

summary: meeting dylan einstein, a genius forensic scientist from indianapolis, musters up some unknown insecurities about your relationship with reid. however, morgan-- and reid, once he figures it out-- isn’t willing to let you think that way. warnings: mentions of bombings (as pertaining to the case)

word count: 3k pairing: spencer reid x female!bau!reader

a/n: set in season 10, episode 14, this one was requested by @koc-help! as per usual, it took me forever to write, so i hope you can forgive me for that and enjoy what i came up with!!

bombing cases were stressful. it always seemed harder for you; figuring out a motive, pushing down the overwhelming sympathy for the victims, convincing yourself that all of your team members were safe. because of your unshakable paranoia in the wake of those cases, you were already on edge by the time the team was boarding the jet to indianapolis. and, of course, spencer caught on to the way you were feeling almost immediately.

with the limited information the team had at that point, conversation about the case was reasonably brief. the file was reviewed and discussed, and hotch delegated a role for everyone to take when the jet landed. when the conversation came to a lull, you slid out of your seat, tossing the manilla folder onto the leather before moving to the back of the jet to make a cup of coffee. jj and derek’s voices were audible as they continued to spitball off of each other, masking the sound of spencer approaching where you stood. “hey,” he called to you as he neared. having been enveloped in the chatter your other friends were creating, you jumped at the sound of your boyfriend’s voice. when you looked up at him, his eyebrows were raised in concern at your reaction, immediately making you recoil into yourself. “you okay?”

“yeah,” you breathed, pulling the coffee pot out of its place to pour the liquid into your empty cup. “i’m fine.”

“that’s not very convincing, you know.” you turned to face him then, sighing and internally shaking the dread away. “what is it?”

“i’m not a huge fan of bombings,” you said sarcastically. spencer scoffed a laugh at that, reaching out to tuck a stray hair behind your ear as you continued with a bit more seriousness. “just a little worried. it’s nothing, spence.”

“i’m not used to seeing you worried in this way. are you sure you’re okay? i mean, do you want to talk about it?”

the soft-spoken concern in spencer’s tone along with the expression he was looking at you with warmed your heart. if there was one thing that could take your mind off of a murderous bomber, it was spencer. your eyes flickered over to the rest of the team, making sure no one was paying any attention to you and your boyfriend huddled up in the back of the jet, before you leaned up and pressed your mouth to spencer’s. the kiss was quick, but it was also just the reassurance that you both needed. “i promise, i’ll tell you if i need to talk. for now, i just want to get this son of a bitch and go back home.”

being present for the disarming of the second bomb only worsened your initial paranoia. the thought of an explosive device made you anxious enough; having to stand your ground and comfort an intended victim while a bomb was armed less than a foot from you was a whole new feeling. you trusted morgan to clip a wire without killing you, but the adrenaline in the heat of the moment was hard to shake. it had been a few hours since the scene had unfolded, but you still felt like your heart could possibly jump out of your chest at any moment the morning after the disarming. despite the underlying terror running through your veins, you were critically analyzing everything going on around you. your focus was completely dedicated to the case unfolding around you, because the sooner you cracked it, the sooner your thinly veiled fear would dissipate.

you were digging around in the bed of the pickup truck while einstein, the local forensic scientist, examined the bomb itself. out of your peripherals you saw reid and morgan approaching, but the bulk of your energy was going into analyzing the scene as best you could. your boyfriend’s eyes lingered on you for a few seconds as he neared, immediately gauging the nerves you were trying so hard to conceal. reid made a mental note to address that as soon as he could get you alone, but fought the urge to do so right then. spencer knew you well enough to know that, no matter how freaked out you currently were, your mind was concentrating on the scene before you, and anything else would simply be considered a distraction. he swallowed down the lump in his throat that formed at the thought of not being able to help you before tuning in to the comment einstein began to make. “he really went for a bigger boom this time.”

the short conversation that ensued between the two following that comment was something that shouldn’t have bothered you. you knew it meant nothing; reid wasn’t the only genius in the world who memorized excerpts from anarchy cookbooks or mathematical theories. just because some young, brilliant, beautiful girl knew the same book as spencer didn’t mean you had anything to worry about.

nonetheless, you became very worried about it.

you strolled around to the passenger side of the truck, sliding into the empty seat with a quizzical look on your face. “you know, it’s a wonder that he even realized he triggered the bomb.”

opening the driver’s side door as he spoke, reid slid into the truck next to you. “maybe he heard something when he stepped on the pedal.”

“and knew not to move? i mean, what’s this guy got, an ex-paramilitary background we don’t know about?”

the back and forth continued a few more times, and within a minute you and reid had developed the idea that allen archer, the bomb’s target, could potentially be your unsub. upon this conclusion, einstein spoke up again. “that’s what you guys do. you just talk a lot.” her voice was joking as the words left her lips, and a bright smile graced her face as she spoke. regardless of the playful tone you immediately identified, the words triggered something in you.

“well, there’s also a lot of kicking down doors involved,” morgan interjected from outside the passenger door, shaking you out of your internally-mortified state. you watched as einstein announced her departure then, mustering up a measly close-lipped smile in return to the courteous and friendly glance she offered you before leaving.

as she walked away, her words repeated in your mind. it was so simple for her to summarize; you just talk a lot. a woman so young and so intelligent had just condensed your entire career into a five-word sentence so simple that you couldn’t even disagree. was that truly all you were capable of? talking? bouncing ideas off of your coworkers’ ideas and hoping you’d end up catching the killer that way?

you spent the rest of the day arguing with yourself. in all honesty, your own inner monologue was starting to get on your nerves. despite your most sincere attempts to focus on the case in front of you, you couldn’t shake the feeling that einstein was right. and maybe she was-- maybe your job was nothing compared to hers, and maybe she was a better match for spencer than you could ever dream of being.

this new uncertainty of your career and relationship definitely didn’t help to settle your previously established fear of being blown up at any given moment.

given the circumstances, it was only a matter of time until someone on your team noticed how uneasy you were steadily growing. they knew you. you were y/n-- sometimes stubborn, oftentimes overprotective, and always capable. sure, you had off days at work, just like everyone else. you weren’t always the one to solve the case, but you were always present and attentive, engaged in the investigation with your mind and body. however, right now, your mind was in two places at once. for that reason, you weren’t surprised in the slightest when morgan approached you at the station.

as you walked toward the conference room to find hotch, you were stopped by the familiar voice calling out. “hey, hold on little lady.”

“what’s up, morgan?”

morgan shook his head at that, a knowing look crossing his features as he began to speak. “nuh-uh. what up with you, y/l/n?” you threw him a falsely quizzical look, trying (and failing) to get him off your back by playing dumb. sadly for you, morgan was too good of a profiler and friend to fall for it. “don’t play with me, girl. i know cases like this always get to you a little, but i also know how badass you are. normally you would’ve bounced back from our brush with death by now, so what’s the problem?”

you squinted at him as your face morphed into dismay. of course you couldn’t fool morgan. your mind flickered to penelope, suddenly relating to one of her more commonly made complaints: damn profilers. “my first problem is that you might know me a little too well.” derek scoffed at that, waiting for you to continue. “my second problem? well, my second problem might be that i’m not smart enough, or maybe that spencer is too good for me, or maybe that our job is too easy, or maybe--”

“woah, woah, woah. slow your roll, little missy. ‘spencer is too good for me?’ where’s that coming from?” you blinked slowly in response, not quite willing to give up any more information than you already had. “fine-- i’ll figure it out myself. let’s see: you’ve been acting weird since we got this case, but that’s not what this is about. i’ve seen you on bombing cases before, and this ain’t that. so... oh, i know. is this about a forensic scientist, maybe? maybe one who has the same name as a very smart, very famous--”

“okay, morgan. i get it. you’re a great profiler, and you know my thoughts better than i do. that doesn’t really change the way i’m feeling right now.” your tone was a little sharp, but the look in your eyes was a mixture of sadness and contempt. “and, in case you needed me to put it simply, i’m feeling like shit.”

a look of pity overtook morgan for a moment. he knew what you were going through. sure, he wasn’t dating a genius with an iq of 187, but he knew how it felt to doubt yourself, and especially how it felt to feel belittled for your work. “y/n,” he said, placing his hands on your shoulders and crouching a little to get on eye-level with you. “don’t do that to yourself, kid. don’t forget how hard what we do is, and how important it is. you save lives every day. no matter how you do it, or how much brainpower it takes, there are people all around this world who are alive because of your work. whether they admit it or not, everyone has respect for that. especially our resident pretty boy.”

“i know, morgan,” you sighed. his hands slid from your shoulders as you finally gave in, looking him straight in the eye as you spoke. “sometimes it just feels like he deserves better.”

“just because it feels that way doesn’t mean it’s true. and i can promise you, reid has never felt that way. not about you.” after giving a comforting pat on the arm to go along with his final words, morgan was walking away.

damn profilers, you thought again. why are we always right?

before you got the chance to speak with reid, the team was off again. instead of splitting up this time, you were simply spreading out; hotch and rossi were scouring the crowd of civilians and news crews at the staged ceremony for allen archer, and the rest of you were divided into two suvs with morgan and kate in one and you, jj, and spencer in the other. your talk with morgan had lifted your spirits a bit, but there was still a tightness in the air as you sat beside your seemingly clueless boyfriend.

unbeknownst to you, spencer wasn’t all that clueless. not only had he caught on to your behavior long before anyone else on the team, but he’d also spotted you and morgan’s secretive moment from across the police station. (and, yes, morgan may have whispered “check on your girl” to spencer when you weren’t paying attention. he just wanted to help.) so, while you thought he was in the dark about your current insecurities, reid was very much aware of what was going on in your head. as much as he hated it, though, he was hesitant to acknowledge it with jj in the backseat and the rest of the team on comms. so, like the considerate boyfriend he was, he waited.

it wasn’t until you got back to the police station that spencer got the chance to catch you alone. everyone else was busy preparing to leave for the jet, the bustle of having solved yet another case causing an uplifting distraction for the team. while your friends were distracted, spencer grabbed you by the hand and pulled you into a nearby empty conference room. the surprise on your face was evident when he looked at you, and he couldn’t help but smile. you laughed nervously at his expression, not completely sure what he had taken you aside for. “hi, spence. you okay?”

“i was actually going to ask you the same thing,” he admitted. “except, i already asked you that once during this case, and you weren’t very willing to share, so i was going to approach it in a more insistent way.” although you were amused by this mysterious behavior of his, you were still confused about what exactly spencer was implying that he knew. “did you really think i wouldn’t notice that you were upset?”

“no,” you said unconvincingly.

“y/n, why won’t you just talk to me?” the desperation in his voice almost shattered your heart. the whole time that you’d been in your own head, spencer had been in his. all because you were scared to talk to the one person you trusted more than anyone in the world.

“i’m sorry,” you breathed, taking a step toward him. spencer’s right hand slid around your waist once you got close enough, and your forehead dropped onto his chest as you sighed. when you looked back up to him, spencer was already anticipating eye contact. “i’m sorry i didn’t say anything. i just didn’t want to worry you, or to make you feel like you’d done anything wrong, because it’s not your fault, i just-- i don’t ever want to feel like i’m holding you back.”

“holding me back from what? you could never hold me back.”

“i could, though! you’re this amazingly brilliant genius, and there are so many people out there who are so much smarter than me, and i--”

“is that what this is about? you think you’re not smart?” you felt his hand tense from its place on your lower back, his disbelief clear in his voice.

“no, no-- i mean, i know i’m smart enough. but sometimes when we have cases like this we meet some really, really smart people, and i can’t help but wonder if you would be better off with someone on your intellectual level. someone like einstein.”

“y/n,” spencer seemed stunned at this revelation, and you realized then that morgan had been right. the idea of you not being enough had never crossed spencer’s mind. “you are the person that i’m better off with. you. i don’t-- i’ve never even thought of anyone else as a possibility since i met you. there isn’t anyone else. i mean, before i knew you, i wasn’t even sure that i believed in love at all. the only reason that i know it’s real now is because of you. i can’t think of any statistics of mathematical theories or scientific discoveries to explain or defend it, but i have always known that there isn’t anything for me aside from you. i mean that. no matter how smart anyone else is, or how cool anyone else is, or how compatible anyone else’s intellect is with mine. i love you, y/n.”

and, just like that, your fears were gone. your inner monologue went silent, and the serenity that spencer’s words brought you washed over your entire body. spencer’s arm tightened around your waist, pulling you closer into him. his free hand moved to the side of your face, brushing back your hair as he waited for you to reply. the anticipation on his face sent another rush of absolute love through you, and you quickly closed the gap between you. as your mouth met his, your hands found their way to the sides of his neck, slowly wrapping around until they were laced together behind his head. for what could’ve been an hour, you stood there, melting into spencer as his words of reassurance replaced the chants of uncertainty that had filled your head hours prior. you were forced to pull back from him eventually, but even then your hands remained around his neck and the distance between your faces was minimal as you reopened your eyes. “i love you.”

a knock on the door suddenly interrupted the moment, causing you to release each other as a third party entered the room: morgan. “hey, lovebirds,” he grinned. “nice to see that you’re back to normal. it’s time to head home.” you smiled knowingly at the man, lacing your fingers through reid’s as you followed morgan out of the room. grabbing your belongings on the way out, the three of you headed toward your designated suv, where jj was waiting patiently in the driver’s seat. “so, you finally confessed, huh?”

“of course i did,” you laughed. “no secrets in this relationship.”

“yeah, and i would’ve figured it out eventually anyway.” at spencer’s interjection, it was morgan’s turn to laugh.

“oh, yeah, 187?”

“he is a genius, you know,” you added smugly.

“well, apparently so am i, because i figured it out before he did. oh, and by the way, pretty girl, i told you.” and with that, morgan was jogging off (in a fit of giggles) to the suv, hopping in the passenger seat before you had a chance to jokingly scold him.

damn profilers.

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid imagines #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fic #criminal minds #criminal minds imagines #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fic #paranoia

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seasonschange-butpeopledont · 3 years

Text

The Last of Us: Part III

Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!Reader / Santiago “Pope” Garcia x F!Reader (This is a flashback chapter, Reader is not present.)

Warnings: Language. Nothing else, really, other than Tom being the worst (generally) and no one trusting him (because they shouldn’t, but we’ll touch on that more in future chapters).

Word Count: 767

Author’s Note: More Triple Frontier zombie apocalypse AU that no one asked for. This was inspired by this week’s Writer Wednesday challenge from @autumnleaves1991-blog. Consider this a mini update. I will have a full length update coming along in a few hours (I think? Possibly tomorrow afternoon.)

Summary: When Frankie’s truck breaks down in the middle of nowhere, Frankie and Pope spend the night on guard duty and wonder if everyone in their group can really be trusted. Set five months prior to Part I.

Part II - Taglist Form - Masterlist - Part IV

Five Months Earlier…

It was a hell of a time for his old truck to break down.

They were somewhere in New Mexico, just about to cross the state line into Texas. It was bound to happen sooner or later. The five of them had been on a road trip of sorts for the past month, driving aimlessly, picking off infected when they needed to. There was nowhere to go, nowhere to be anymore.

Tom had been the one to make the final call about the Quarantine Zones. They’d spent enough time in the military to know that when the government was put in charge of anything, they tended to fuck it up. The Federal Disaster Response Agency was bad news.

So they all piled into Frankie’s pickup instead, each of them equipped with whatever tactical gear they’d managed to throw into their backpacks and a few boxes of camping supplies, and headed out.

But now, the sight of smoke pouring from the engine forced them to pull over to the side of the road. The sun was blazing down on them, and Pope and Benny took the first shift of guarding the truck while Frankie worked to patch up an engine that was already barely held together by duct tape and hope. It was overheating, the effects of constant driving and the desert-like climate taking its toll.

“C’mon, baby, don’t do this to me…” Frankie murmured, swiping away the sweat that dripped down his temple. They didn’t have much left in the way of water, and almost pained him to pour the bottle over the radiator.

“What’s the verdict, Fish?” Will asked, coming to stand beside him. Frankie gave him a solemn look that told him all he needed to know.

“We’re stuck here until she cools down,” Frankie replied quietly. “Maybe tonight, after the sun goes down…”

“But...?”

“I don’t know what damage it did to the engine when it overheated. Even if I did, I don’t have the parts to fix it. The old girl’s on her way out.” The pickup had been with him since the day he’d turned sixteen, passed down to him from his father. He’d repaired this thing more times than he could count, and he dreaded to think he’d probably be abandoning her soon.

“My condolences,” Will replied, patting his friend’s shoulder. “Maybe she’ll make it to Texas. We’ll be able to find a salvage yard there.”

Frankie nodded, raising his eyebrows, “Hope so.”

It was a relief when the sun finally slipped below the horizon, cooling the air around them to a temperature that was almost comfortable by comparison. Dinner consisted of a round of MRE’s from the stockpile Will had kept in his basement for years. Frankie never thought he’d be grateful to see those again after he came home from deployment, but he knew that most people had it much worse these days.

Frankie volunteered for guard duty that night. As the designated driver of the group, he usually got out of it, but tonight he couldn’t seem to quiet his mind.

They’d been in bad situations before, and they’d always made it through just fine. Frankie knew that, but… Frankie was the pilot. He was the one who took control, who got his guys out of whatever situation they’d gotten themselves into. He could fly over hostile territories all day long, but strand him in the desert? That’s when Frankie got nervous.

“You doin’ okay, Fish?” Pope asked, plopping himself down beside him in the dirt.

“Just peachy,” Frankie deadpanned. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

“Nah,” He shook his head, grinning slightly. “You need somebody watching your back.”

“That’s what Tom is for, right?” Frankie mumbled, nodding towards the man who’d taken up post on the opposite side of the camp.

Pope gave a soft snort, bumping his shoulder. “You know better than that, Fishie. Shit’s about to get tough out here. Redfly is gonna be looking out for number one.”

Frankie nodded his agreement. Tom may have been the de facto leader of their group, but he was no team player.

“What’s that phrase? You don’t have to be faster than the bear–”

“Just faster than the guy next to you. Yeah. That sounds like Tom,” Pope finished. “That’s okay, though. At least we know who not to trust.”

“Right,” Frankie sighed, still watching the horizon carefully.

“And if worst comes to worst, you know I’ll always have your back, right? No man left behind.”

“Not even Redfly?” Frankie asked, the corner of his mouth curling into a crooked grin.

“Yeah, no. Fuck that guy.”

General Taglist: @theravenreads @marshmallowtraver @computeringturtle @maythxthirstbxwithyou @artsymaddie @heythere-mel

Pedro Characters Taglist: @pascalisthepunkest @coldlilheart @fuck-goes-on @spideysimpossiblegirl

The Last of Us (Triple Frontier AU) Taglist: @kesskirata @a-bang-for-your-bucky @brianamaree

Frankie Morales (Triple Frontier) Taglist: @freeshavocadoooo @fangirl-of-randomness @darnitdraco

Santiago “Pope” Garcia (Triple Frontier) Taglist: @rosequartzwriting

#Writer Wednesday #frankie morales x reader #santiago pope garcia x reader #santiago garcia x reader #francisco catfish morales x reader #triple frontier #pedro pascal characters fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #frankie morales x you #santiago garcia x you #santiago pope garcia

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lovely-necromancy · 3 years

Text

A Cure for Insomnia Ch 19

Your bags were jumping and sliding around in the back of Madeline's rusty pickup truck. She had been kind enough to offer you a ride up to the lodge when she stopped by the shop earlier.

Madeline had seen the sour look Nate kept sending you and how you were intentionally not looking over towards the soon to be graying young man. Not one to beat around the bush she asked what was up, mam bear mode peeking through.

Nate was just being a dick to you and saying you had to stay with the Cowells longer than what had originally been agreed to. Big Jo seemed fine about letting you go back home now, even with your resolve set to continue hanging out with Toby. But Nate was trying to put a tight leash on you since you “wouldn't listen to reason” - so he said.

Even with security at the cottage updated Nate still thought it best to keep you with them if you were planning to still interact with Toby. More than likely he was trying to make that harder for you to do since staying with them would definitely make it easier for him to keep track of you.

The thought alone set shivers down your spine. Like a constrictor slithering up your back to rest around your neck and do what it does best.

It had been really hard to breathe these last few days.

But all Madeline needed to hear was “Nate” and “being a dick” before she said she'd take you herself. Thereby ending the conversation and silent argument in the shop, as she spun on her heel stating when she'd pick you up later.

Nate hadn't been too happy about the exchange but he could suck your dick. He's been annoying you with all this Toby bullshit and doesn't get to tell you what he thinks right now.

The drive up is silent, but that comfortable kind of silence between two old friends who don't ever really have a need to talk to hang out. It's nice because it gives you tons of time to think about just what you're about to do.

Going over several scripts all at once in your head.

You want to talk to Toby. You still haven't read that file but it just doesn't sit right with you that it was ever even given to you in the first place. Toby being completely unaware of the total breech of privacy makes your stomach flip just like your bags in the back right now. It's not like you ever asked for the detailed life file but at the same time it feels wrong not to let Toby know tht something like that even exists for him. His past being dug back up all without his knowledge or consent. And now here you were about to lay it right down in front of him.

Was this the right move? You're the one bringing it to his attention, if it's something that will mess him up it'll be your fault that he's upset. Jo and Nate may have gotten the information but you still count yourself as being a complacent party to all of this.

Your stomach feels like it's on a drop tower as it sinks further into a pit of guilt.

You feel like the scum of the Earth right now. Hopefully he isn't too upset.

Seeing your downcast eyes, you were a lot more expressive than you ever really realized, Madeline pipes up, “You gon' be ok there sport?”

A small smile bit at your lips. There's a reason Madeline Cobb was known in Kepler as Mama. She took care of those she saw as her own and that was damn near half the town at this point. Hell you'd heard a rumor she raised most this town. The lodge had been her orphanage before all the kids grew up and turned it into a resort once new arrivals stopped coming. That's probably the reason it's always been so warm and welcoming, it was a home first.

“Yea...just nervous.”

She lets out a small chuckle at you.

“Don' be, 'm sure that Toby boy will say 'yes'. And if he don' well you just come find me. I'll set him right.”

Ok now you were just confused.

“Huh?”

“Don' worry about it, he likes you jus' like you like 'im. It'll work out for you two.” she reaches over and ruffles your hair before jumping out of the pickup. You hadn't realized you were already at your destination.

And it was too late to correct Mama, she'd already made it inside the lodge, about why you were so nervous. The warmth in your face makes you even more grateful for your mask. Barclay was getting bit by the end of the night, the man really needed to get a boyfriend and stop trying to manifest one for you.

The door to the lodge opens again, you hardly paid it any mind. So lost in your own musing you didn't even notice the man walking towards you. Your goat plush had fallen beneath your seat and you were attempting to grab it but it was too far out of your reach.

“You good there?” Toby's amused voice calls, startling you.

Popping your head out of the opened car door. Heart racing faster at the sight of your friend standing there with a small smirk on his bandaged face. You weren't ready for this.

His eye looks better, well like a normal black eye and not a swollen lump that threatened to over take his socket. Now his eye looked like it could still function out of the slight opening. Fuck this was hard enough when you'd pictured only one eye looking at you but now you had to calculate for both!?

Is it weird that this is what worries you? Are you derailing from the actual situation? Distracting yourself so the conversation is easier on you. So you don't have to think about the possibility that Toby won't want to be friends after this. That he'll end up hating you for something you hadn't done.

God you really want to cry.

“Hey, space cadet.” Toby's made his way over to your side and puts a gentle hand on you knee, “You ok? Did something happen?”

He's really sweet, you're going to miss him.

No, stop. You need to get a grip and stop thinking like this. Toby will understand and you guys can continue being friends, a bit awkwardly but still friends. You'd get to hang out and maybe wander through the Monongahela together.

“I...I dropped my goat.”

He cocks his head to the side, brows slowly smoothing out and he gives a gentle squeeze to your legs as he reaches under you, hand searching for your lost plush.

The warmth that was once collecting in your cheeks shoots down past the void sitting in your stomach. Just another thing to add to your list you suppose. After a week of nearly no privacy or comfort you are thoroughly pent up. You don't necessarily want Toby, just need someone or something to help relieve the fire between your thighs. He just happens to be in proxcimity of that fire, poking the flame that hasn't been snuffed during your stay with the Cowells, making it dance and writhe reminding you of the need.

But you can't focus on that yet, you'd give yourself a hand when you finally got back home. Right now you needed to focus on Toby. And having that uncomfortable conversation.

“Here he is.” placing the goat in your lap he looks into your eyes, a slight glint in his.

He's in a really good mood tonight. You have to ignor the whispers in your head, telling you you're about to ruin this for him.

Luckily a tic to the right shoos those thoughts away for you.

“YN?” his hand is back on your knee, it's such a small gesture maybe even completely subconscious but it helps ground you.

You haven't read that file but you can't see Toby ever doing something awful enough to warrant Nate's barrage of paranoia and fear. Even if he did....he couldn't still be bad right? You're such a good judge of character and you called Brian on his masking there's no way you'd miss Toby lying to your face.

“I...” he's looking into your eyes searching as you take a steadying breath, “I just really need a slushie right now.” your eyes drop to the goat in your hands.

You fucking coward.

It's silent for a moment as you chastise yourself for not just coming out and telling Toby you wanted to talk. Toby's hand falls easily from your knee and to his side.

“A'right then, you good to drive?” you really missed your chance here, “'cuz Brian's got Connor tonight.”

Wait what?

You look at Toby who simply raises the right side of his mouth in a lopsided grin. A subtle raise of his right brow tells you he understood what you'd asked for. When was the last time anyone was ever able to read you so well?

“Yes!” you push the goat into Toby's chest and practically dive into the back seat for your bags. “I can drive. Franklin?”

“Don't work tomorrow, so sure.”

His good mood seems to pick back up a bit. He's chuckling as you rush to gather everything and head over to your car, barely shutting Mama's door as you do. Toby gives it a good bump with his hip to make sure it shut properly. He unlocks your car for you and slides into the passenger's seat while you arrange your shit in the trunk.

You catch sight of the skull still in your trunk and figure you'll just leave it as is for now. Since it seems that literally every time you close this trunk you forget it exists. Bye weirdly placed deer skull maybe one day you'll have a wall mount worthy of your beauty.

Before closing the trunk you do rab the file. Maybe having it up front with you will help you actually tell Toby about it.

When you open the driver's side Toby's hand is already outstretched and waiting for your phone, this isn't his first rodeo after all. You can't help but smile as you hand it right over to him. He notices, because of course he does, and beams back at you. Sending more warmth throughout your body. After collecting your emotions the guilt comes back around.

You need to stop being horny on main. And in front of Toby no less. It's weird, like you're riled up for him and not because you're attention starved and haven't known solitude for over a week.

By the time you're driving off the lot Toby had picked you 'Let's drive to nowhere' playlist. A perfect choice for tonight, seeing as these are all either songs to dissociate to or have mental break downs with. And with you obnoxious emotions either is up for grabs. Aside from the music the car was silent as you drove out of town.

You were so wrapped up in what to say to Toby, how to say it, when – that you ended up not saying anything at all. Toby on the other hand couldn't wait for you any longer and broke the silence himself.

A habit he seems to have, must not like silences.

“Normally you don't shut up,” the words were harsh but his tone wasn't for once.

He watches as the scenery changes from quaint country road to interstate. “Did something happen?”

An awkward anxious smile makes its way on to your face. You've never been good at schooling your features and smiling was unfortunately your default in the even of confrontation. It was probably just your brain's way of protecting you from emotional trauma.

“Sorta.”

To his credit Toby waits for three full songs before prying for more information.

“Another attack?” he's on edge.

To be fair you are too.

“No, like hell Jo and Nate wo-would let me leave if that were it.” your head jerks twice to the right. You miss Toby's wince.

Nate barely let you leave the shop today, you had to get outside assistance aka Mama.

“Ok, so what happened then?” as you bit your lip trying to find your words Toby is running through his own list of possibilities. “Dis Ma- Tim do something to you?”

Huh?

Why would Tim have anything to do with this? Are they still fighting? But Brian has Connor tonight...that doesn't seem likely but you've really only hung out with Toby thus far. You don't know enough about their group dynamic.

You also didn't miss the beginning syllable Toby said. Was he trying to say 'Matt', 'Mark', 'Manny'? There were so many names that Tim's alter could have but at the least you've more or less been told there is an alter to begin with.

But why would Toby be concerned about Tim's alter? Was he the one that punched Toby? Were they actually the two fighting and not Tim and Toby? This is confusing just being on the outside, you have no idea how the trio copes with this situation.

“Oh no, Tim and Not Tim have been nice to me.” if you're coming clean about the file might as well come clean about knowing Tim has an alter. This way Toby could pass along the message to Tim and Not Tim.

“Back up, not liter-mrrow – literally. 'Not Tim'? You've met Mas-Ma-Masky?!”

Masky? That's a strange name, but who were you to judge the name someone gave themself. Maybe he's a He/Him enby.

“Not like formally or anything, but I'm pretty sure he was the one that helped me and Ronnie out the other week.” you switch lanes to drive off of the interstate, hoping to find a secluded road to have this conversation on.

God knows it's going to take all of your concentration.

Toby was seething in his seat and you know the tension is only going to get worse going forward.

You can hear him muttering to himself, 'of course' or 'he didn't remember', over and over. Finding a good place to park the car you take it and turn to Toby, who's still lost in his own head.

“Tobias.” you call trying to jostle him and it works a little too well in a sense. As he blurts out, “Don't! Masky's dangerous stay away from him!”

He immediately freeze like he hadn't meant to say that. And while it wasn't a tic it was probably an impulse brought on by his anxious frame of mind. He's popping his knuckles again too.

You don't know why you said it, looking at Toby's wide blown pupils – riddled with fear and nerves, you should've kept you mouth shut.

“Dangerous like you?”

Or at least phrased that a bit more eloquently.

Toby's eyes grow dark and his good eye cuts low nearly matching it's swollen twin. A shiver runs down your spine even though you know the malice is not for you.

“What.” he hisses out.

It's not a question, it's an order. He wants to know what you know and maybe even who told you. Maybe he thinks Masky told you something, since that was the topic of the previous conversation.

Dark eyes watch you like a hawk as you pull the file from the map holder in your door. His chest is nearly heaving with every breath at this point, can he hyperventilate? That's a dumb question he most certainly can. And he's either on his way to that or a panic attack. You hope you don't send him into a panic attack, Connor's not here to help. Connor know pressure though, Toby's had him preform it on you during your spells. Would it work the same if you laid on top of Toby? You're getting too distracted right now.

Not trusting yourself to not just back down now, you hold the folder out to Toby to take.

He's just staring at it like it'll attack him at any moment, and honestly it might...just not physically. He glances up at you. There's a funny flash of deja vu likening back to the first time you met. Cold indifferent and confused eyes looking at you as though you were some strange alien they'd never seen before. This time however there's a spark of something else in them. Something dark that festers beneath the surface. Was that hatred, betrayal, or was that the wall he was building back up. The wall that would sever this friendship.

Stop projecting. He hasn't even taken the file, he can't possibly know what's going on right now.

“What's that?” see.

“Nate got super protective after the attack, I guess the other day you just like rubbed him the wrong way. So, he had someone look into you. That file is everything they found...pretty sure it's your whole life, I swear I haven't read anything. Not even a peek. But Jo and Nate tried to tell me the-”

He snatched the file from you before you'd even said you hadn't looked. He opened it and a second later it was closed and he took a shaky breath before looking at you.

It was your turn to look like a deer in headlights tonight, you knew that breath was one of barely concealed rage. This was it, this was where everything ended, all because Nate had “a bad feeling” about Toby.

But you trusted Toby, he wouldn't hurt you. He was your friend.

“So” he lets out a harsh sigh, “you didn't...you haven't read anything?”

You hastily shake your head, “What did they tell you.” he looks off to the side and his mouth is all screwed up, and not in it's normal mangled sense.

“That I shouldn't see you anymore, you did something bad, awful, terrifying; Nate's list goes on but I sort of...fo the fingers in the ear 'lalala' thing” you say sheepishly, “anytime he tries to tell me something. Jo stops when I ask him to. He's not too worried about you...I think.”

Or he's working behind the scene to keep you and Toby separated for the long run but that's speculation and not the point of this conversation so you don't mention it.

Toby's flipping through the file skimming it, no doubt looking for his checkered past, he finds what he's looking for and nods once continuing on like he was reading a grocery list. Which he may as well have been, a grocery list of all his transgressions. With the way his fingers gripped the edges of the folder you could tell he was putting on a front about the contents.

They did bother him.

“Why didn't you look, why didn't you listen YN?” was he seriously angry at you for that?

“It was an invasion of your privacy. Whatever's in there I wanted you to have the ability to tell me on your own terms – if you ever even wanted to. Not because you were forced into it because I found out from some third party that doesn't even know you.”

“Then why the fuck did you -wrong- practically jump into a car with me and then hand me a file on my shitty life!?!” He slammed the file down into his lap with a lot of force, more than he should have used for sure. “They think I'm a menace and they're right you shouldn't have...you need to...” he trails off looking like he's trying to disintegrate the file in front of him with latent laser eye abilities.

His arms are shaking.

No – he's trembling. The way he's biting his lip tips you off. He's trying to hold himself together, trying to stop himself from breaking. This can't be the same person Nate's so worried about.

“You're biting your lip, that's not good for you.”

“Fuck off.” it's half hearted at best, no real weight behind the words. And he does let his abused lip go.

“It's a breech of trust if I didn't tell you this...I wanted to give you the file because you should know it's been read by two people, to my knowledge.” you place a hand on his forearm, “Toby, I don't know what you've done in the past but...you know you aren't that person now, right?”

He's out of the car in an instant, slamming the door behind him. You follow, as dumb as you understand it is, getting out of your car in the middle of no where with a very unstable person.

“Get back in the car. I mrrow I can't...I need a minute.” his shaking is so much worse now that he's standing, It's even put a tremble in his voice.

“You're stupid if you think I'm leaving you alone in the middle of no where.” you stand your ground, he may need space but this is not the place to have it. You're only a few miles from town, you can get him back to the lodge where he doesn't have to see or be near you.

Hell you won't say a word on the way back.

“Like you're not stupid for ignoring the warnings that I'm dangerous! I've killed people! Did you know that?! Did you even think that's what was so bad!?” he's giving you the same glare he had on when he talked about the fight with Tim.

“I could literally kill you right now, you've driven us out to who knows where but still remained in walking distance back to town. You live on the outskirts of it and it'd be so easy for me to make you disappear and everyone would believe your stalkers got to you.” his chest heaves at a vicious rate.

Despite the venom and truth of his words, you can't find it in you to be scared of him. If anything his rant proves Toby must not have been mentally well during his crimes, he's acting like a cornered alley cat not a serial killer. There's a vice grip on you heart at the thought.

“Ok...are you?”

It's like a switch has been flipped in him and he calms instantly.

“What?” he knows what you're asking.

“Are you going to kill me?” you asked like you'd been asking what time it was.

He stares at you looking you up and down, “No...I wouldn't.” his neck jerks triggering your own tic.

“Then I'm safe.” you slowly approach him, much like you would a feral alley cat. “I trust you Tobias.” you reach out to tough his arm again.

It hadn't worked in the car but Toby does seem to calm down faster when he's being touched. Like the sensation brings him back to reality and locks him there.

“Y-you shouldn'n'n't.”

He doesn't pull away this time as you place your hands gently on his forearms. His eyes raise to meet yours.

“...I've killed.”

He sounds so helpless.

The only thing you find shocking about this is that he actually did it. You know people are capable of all sorts of vile things. But the way Toby's voice breaks, the tremors that run through his body. You can't see any similarity with the horror show you once imagined, a Toby covered head to toe in blood and a vicious grin.

The fact that Toby killed doesn't really phase you much more than the ever present 'how' that rings out. He must have had a reason. Jo wasn't too worried so maybe it was circumstantial. Not to mention Toby's among the general public. Could it have just been an accident? A misunderstanding?

“I don't – no I'm not going to say 'I don't care', because this is something that really effects you but I...I guess what I'm trying to get at is..it doesn't bother me. I know it should but, Tobias I just can't picture you as a murderer.” that blood stained Toby flashes before you singing 'liar', “I got to know you before finding out any of this. So, I know there must've been a reason behind it. And that's...and you don't have to tell me anything.”

Nothing more is said, after all you've said everything you could think of to deescalate the situation. And Toby is frozen as he stares at you. You'd have thought he was dissociating had it not been for the way his eyes still held that tiny reflection of light. He was still present, just unsure how to proceed.

Honestly you were stumped too, you had no idea how to begin this conversation let alone end it.

“My – there was...” you rub his arm in a small circular motion. You don't need to hear anything more, it already feels like too much information that he'd lost the agency for.

But your gentle shushing did nothing because he continued, “Clairse says I had a psychotic break and...just went after the biggest stressor at the time.” he pauses with a deep breath and closes his eyes in the process. “She says it wasn't really my fault, I was under...a lot of – I wasn't there, where I should've been mentally. My dad was abusive...anyone in my situation would've broken at some point.”

His words are hollow and robotic. A mantra he's learned to say although he doesn't believe it.

You'd normally give someone the choice but this time you just slip you arms over his shoulders and pull him into a hug. There's no resistance from him either, if anything he leans into the embrace and grips onto your back. His trembling doesn't stop but it's softened by the pressure.

“You don't have to tell me anything Tobes. I don't want you to...not if it's this painful.”

“I want – want to tell you about Lyra.” his voice cracks in tandem with his neck as he says her name.

And he does tell you, against all your protests to take his time. He tells you everything laid out his whole life right in front of you. From being home schooled early on – isolated within his own home for years, to his older sister and her untimely accident that he's still clearly wracked with guilt about, and then the spiral that ended in patricide and a fire that ate his entire neighborhood.

By the end of his recounting he'd stopped trembling and letting out the occasional sniffle – and now the two of you were leaning on the hood of your car. Looking at the stars that just started coming out for the night, you occasionally whispered affirmations to Toby as he tells more stories from his childhood. The good ones this time.

His spirits aren't as high as they were when you'd started your evening but they're much better than they were two hours ago.

You chuckle as he finishes telling you about the time he and Lyra managed to sneak out of the house for a concert only to realize they had no way of getting back into the house when they returned. Their mom just opened the door letting them inside with a small crease in her brow but the smile that played at her lips told them everything they'd needed to know. They weren't in trouble, she'd sent them off to bed and in the morning asked how the show was. From the way Toby talked about his mom you can tell he really loves her. The feeling must've been mutual, if she sent them off to bed instead of dishing out a punishment all because Toby had smiled for the first time in weeks that night.

“Ah, favorite child Toby strikes again.” you joke.

This time Toby didn't say anything, you had been throwing small jokes in to help keep the mood light, but he just looked at you with his head tilted. A grim expression barely crossed his features before being replaced with a lopsided smile and warm but sad eyes.

“Y'kn – Kyra used to say that all the time.”

“Must be true then.”

He looks at his hands with the softest expression you've ever seen. It's an expression normally given to Connor, just sadder this time.

You nudge him getting his attention back to the present.

“You still want that slushie?”

He takes a moment to look around you and finally rests his gaze on the stars. “Not Franlin, not tonight.” he says focusing back on to you.

“Think we're two exits from Riverton if that helps. They have Wawas.”

“Wawas?” he chuckles.

You nod, “Yea they have smoothies and milkshakes.”

“Ooh la la.”

You both snort and head back into the car. It's surreal to be buckling back in, joking around with Toby when just hours prior you thought you'd be ending your friendship the moment you opened your mouth.

You can't help but ask, “Are we cool?”

“Yea...we're good. 's not like you fucking asked for the information.” he leans his head against the window and crosses his arms into himself.

“I'm still sorry about it though.”

“Know you are. But it's over now.” the finality of that statement takes the weight off of your shoulders. For the first time in days you can breathe again.

“Thanks for telling me everything...you didn't have to. But I appreciate you sharing it with me.”

His nails dig into his arms, or they would have if they weren't chopped down to the bit.

“I mrrow I-I didn't tell you everything...”

Nope this was over and done with, no more sad and scared Toby. You couldn't handle anymore, guilt had found a friend in discomfrot and the two had set out to eat you alive with every tremor that tore through Toby's body.

“What are you like a child murderer or something?” Giving a laugh to soften the joke.

….

You missed the way Toby tenses and sucks in a breath. His heart is beating wildly in his chest, so hard he's certain you hear it. Is that where you draw the line? Child murder. Of course you had to have some boundaries he couldn't just expect you to be cool with everything he's done. You were sure to figure it out sooner or later no thanks to your boss. But Toby couldn't loose you now. Not when you've been an anchor he hasn't had in such a long time. He feels almost human again when he's with you.

He's been quiet too long, at least he thinks he has. He needs to say something, joke around back and dismiss the notion. You can't know not now – maybe not ever.

“I'm trans!” he hadn't meant to blurt that out.

He stared at you with wide eyes. Why had he said that, that hadn't even crossed his mind. Just as he was about to laugh it off you reached over and lightly punched him in the arm. That small gesture sent a tickle down Toby's spine. It was such an innocent touch, but he was touched starved and knew it.

“I am too goof. Thanks for telling me but why the wait?”

Fuck now he had to think of something. Talking to you always made him so brain dead.

“Mrrow...mrr-you saw me as a man first...I wanted to keep it that way.” maybe he didn't have to make something up, just tell you the half truth.

Brian had questioned him when they got ready for the picnic why he hadn't worn his trans tie dye shirt and he's said he misplaced it. A bold lie to tell someone like Brian, especially since it'd been a gift from his mom. She had sent it in a care package last June. He'd never loose something his mom gave him, at least not so quickly. If he'd been being honest with himself at the time, he was worried about your reaction. Of course he knew you were trans too so not like you'd be one to be a transphobe, but he didn't want you to stop seeing him as a man and only see him as trans.

“Toby, you are a man. Nothing short of you telling me otherwise will change that for me.”

Toby isn't sure when you grabbed his hand but he's aware of your hold when you start to rub along his knuckles. He watches your thumb circle jis joints and pressing a bit into the divots as he takes another deep breath.

He gives his best smile, a lopsided uncomfortable looking thing, “I don't think I like when you call me Toby.”

#A cure for insomnia #Timothy Wright #timothy wright x reader #timothy wright x brian thomas #masky x reader #ticcitoby #ticci toby #ticci tobyx reader #ticci toby x reader #brian thomas x reader #Brian Thomas #masky #creepypasta fanfic

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reyesstrand · 3 years

Note

#2 for Tarlos please.

thank you for the prompt!! i hope you enjoy 💗

all prompts are from this list. also available on ao3!

In theory, TK knew that this could always be a possibility.

It’s a given in their line of work—both of them run toward the danger, not away, and it’s something they have to grapple with. But the worry before every shift, the simmering nerves that something could go wrong...it’s something they face down as a team. And while the team’s always there to offer support, it’s the two of them against the world in so many ways.

But it doesn’t make it any easier when the ladder-truck pulls up to an intersection, on some unassuming, regular old Thursday, and TK’s eyes instantly lock on a familiar blue Camaro.

“Hey, kid—” Judd starts, but TK pushes all thoughts but his boyfriend out of his mind. He grabs his med-kit, the ambulance still a couple minutes away, and beelines for the driver’s side of Carlos’ car.

Only, his boyfriend isn’t there.

“Carlos?” TK hears the strain in his own voice as he searches, acknowledging the considerable damage to the front of the car. His boyfriend couldn’t have gone far, and TK spares a glance to the backseat and the ground nearby, looking for any sort of sign.

But there’s nothing.

He runs a hand through his hair, looking around once more for fear of missing something. His dad catches his eye from across the street, where he’s chatting with Mateo and pointing to various onlookers, and TK just shrugs, throwing his hands in the air. He’s completely bewildered, wondering if this is just the universe playing some cruel trick on him, as he shoulders his bag.

“Hey TK!” Marjan calls, and he turns to follow her voice.

She’d been assigned to the other vehicles to assess the victims, alongside Paul and Judd, and she waves him over to where a pickup truck has its front end bent around a traffic pole. There’s a small crowd of people curled around the perimeter of the accident—a usual occurrence, especially something like this in the middle of the day—and so TK has to announce his arrival loudly in order to get through to his team.

When he does, TK staggers for a moment.

Because Carlos is there.

He’s kneeling, attention focused on a woman who’s sitting on the curb. She has a few small cuts along her head and a larger one along her arm, which Carlos has his hands pressed over to staunch the bleeding. He looks up briefly, and catches TK’s eyes, offering him the tiniest reassuring smiles before turning back to the woman.

“Passenger of the truck,” Paul explains, as Marjan digs through her own med-kit and pulls out sterile bandages. She moves into Carlos and the woman’s space, replacing Carlos’ hands with her own. “He says he saw her struggling and ran over to help.”

TK swallows hard, watching as Marjan works. There’s the telling wail of the ambulance’s siren as it arrives, and Tim and Nancy are quick to come over with the stretcher. They take off with the driver, who’d been grabbing at his neck, and Michelle leads the woman—carefully wrapped up with the bandages Marjan supplied—along with her husband.

“How are you feeling?” TK asks, coming in close to Carlos’ space when his boyfriend stands. It’s his first opportunity to get a good look at him, and his breath catches in his throat when he spots the gash over his boyfriend’s brow. “Let me look at that.”

“Ty, I’m fine...” Carlos tries, though TK shoots him a look and Marjan and Paul manage to simultaneously whistle under their breath.

“Come here,” TK says, leading him toward the ladder-truck for the smallest bit of privacy. He’s thankful that the cut on his boyfriend’s head looks superficial, but there’s always a subtle worry about neck or brain injuries whenever they encounter a car accident. He rests his hands on Carlos’ shoulders and pushes gently, guiding him to sit on the step on the back of the rig.

After a moment of digging through his bag, he clutches the stethoscope and goes about checking Carlos’ ABCs, just to make himself feel better. Content enough with what he finds, he moves on to find some gauze, glancing up to meet his boyfriend’s eyes. “So, what happened?”

“I was just doing some errands,” Carlos starts, wincing a little when TK gently wipes at some of the blood on his forehead. “Someone ran the light, and it all went downhill from there. But I—I feel fine, TK.”

“That’d be the adrenaline,” TK murmurs, moving so he’s standing between his boyfriend’s legs. He feels Carlos drop a hand to his hip, and he lets the touch anchor both of them as he examines the wound. “But it doesn’t look too bad. I’ll patch it up, and they can run some tests at the hospital.”

Carlos looks at him incredulously. “Baby, I don’t need to go to the hospital.”

“It’d make me feel better if you went,” TK says, pouting a little at him to sell it as he smooths the gauze over the gash. “Actually, it’d make me feel better if you promise to never get hurt again.”

He says it with the tiniest huff of a laugh, trying to lighten the mood as Carlos stares deep into his soul.

“Well,” Carlos sighs, leaning back a bit. He looks a little more tired, now, the reality of the day probably settling in. “I could say the same about you.”

“I promise not to ever do it on purpose,” TK says, gently cupping Carlos’ face, dragging his thumb in small strokes over his cheek.

“Me too,” Carlos offers him a warm smile, before giving him a little smirk. “Pinkie promise?”

TK grins, shaking his head fondly at his boyfriend. He still holds out his free hand, though, pinkie sticking out.

“Pinkie promise,” TK confirms, lifting a brow at Carlos. The other man smiles at him and mirrors his actions, removing his hand from TK’s hip so they can interlock pinkies. Their hands linger in a soft touch even afterwards, and Carlos maneuvers them so their fingers intertwine.

“I’m sorry for worrying you,” Carlos murmurs, slowly standing up. TK steadies him with a hand to his waist.

“Don’t apologize. I’m just glad you’re okay,” TK says, curling his fingers into his boyfriend’s shirt. Carlos settles an arm around his shoulders, and pulls him close for a makeshift hug.

I love you, Carlos whispers into his hair, before pressing a kiss there. TK feels warmth spread throughout his body, as he reaches up for a quick kiss pressed to his boyfriend’s mouth, repeating those three fateful words, knowing in that instant that they’ll be okay. They’ll always be okay, together.

#tarlos #911 lone star #tarlos fic #my fic #sixringss

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be-the-spark-flyboy · 3 years

Text

Meant To Be [part 1]

A/n: missed last week buT NOT THIS TIME WRITERS BLOCK😤 written for @autumnleaves1991-blog writer wednesday

Pairing: Poe Dameron x Finn (modern au)

Warnings: swearing, pining, BB8 is a snarky 4 yr old, cuteness, some thirty thots, I don’t know how toddlers speak forgive me, barely proofread, age gap (Finn is 25 and Poe is 34)

Word count: 1.4K

—-

Poe was so tired. He could feel the sweat rolling down the back of his neck, the sun beating down on him mercilessly as he slammed the trunk of his car close a tad harder than necessary. A tiny head peaked out from the passenger seat at the noise. Poe grimaced.

He was really looking forward to handing over Beebee to Han and Leia for the evening and get some much needed rest. But now he was practically stranded in the middle of a desert, sand as far as his eyes could see and a flat tire, puncture kit nowhere to be found.

Dragging his feet back to the front, he dropped heavily onto the driver's seat, huffing in frustration. The radio was playing a pop song he may have heard sometime in passing, but hey, at least the air conditioning was unaffected and they had more than enough snacks packed for the trip. The last thing he needed was a hangry kid crying from the punishing heat.

Said toddler turned to look at him and he snorted at her serious expression and his aviators looking comically large on her small face. Beebee smiled back. "Now are you going to call grampa Han?" she asked.

"Looks like I don't have a choice," he sighed, prompting a round of giggles from Bee.

"He's going to be mad,"

"Little lady, do you think it's funny when your dad gets yelled at by that old man?"

"I'm gonna tell him you called him old man," she giggled again.

"No you won't,"

"Yes, I will," she told him with conviction.

"Snitches get stitches," Poe lurched forward tickling her sides making her squeal with laughter.

"I'm gonna tell him!"

---

"You always get the same thing! Try something new," Rey groaned.

Finn smiled pleasantly at her irritation, cheerfully replying, "Nope," as Rey parked her ancient looking pick-up truck outside the ice-cream parlour. "And if you get me anything but butterscotch I'll steal your keys," he threatened.

"And then what? Walk home by yourself?" Rey laughed, slipping out before Finn could issue more stupid threats. He pouted in his seat, watching his roommate happily skip into the shop.

Fridays were Finn's favourite. Classes end early and it was his off day too. More often then not Han lets Rey off earlier at the shop so he gets to spend more time with her as well. It was just perfect.

The phone on the dashboard starts to vibrate not a minute later. Finn recognized the caller ID and picked it up. "Hello, Solo,"

"Rey not there?" came the gruff reply.

"Nice to hear from you too, I've been good, how about you?" He asked cheerfully. Maybe the fact that he wasn’t face to face with Han Solo made him a little more bold than usual. Rey swears he is a teddy bear under all that grumpy personality but Finn was yet to be convinced.

"Not in the mood, big deal," the old man huffed on other side.

"I can take a message," Finn folded. Best not to push him too far.

“My idiot godson got himself stranded out in the desert without a puncture kit. I need Rey to go help him out,”

“Aye aye, captain,”

---

Bee was adorably dancing along to the Peppa pig theme song on her god-knows-how-many episode on the iPad propped up against her knees. Exhaustion was pulling at Poe’s eyelids as he fought to keep them open.

It had been almost an hour since he made that absolutely not fun at all call to Han, who spent fifteen whole minutes lecturing him on the importance of being prepared, especially with a toddler dependent on him. Thankfully Leia had interrupted with an excuse of wanting to talk to Beebee.

Then they had waited and waited. He had already gotten out of the car to stretch his legs about three times, not more than a few minutes at a time, too scared he would melt right into the ground from the heat. One particularly long blink of his eyes later, he noticed a battered looking pickup truck approaching and thought dear lord let them be my savior.

The truck parked on the opposite side of the road and a young woman in a tank top and grease stained jeans hopped out. Must be the one Han called Rey. Poe dropped a kiss on Bee’s forehead, asking to her to stay inside. He pushed the door open and— very nearly tumbled to the ground in his gay panic.

Another person stepped out of the truck, a man maybe a few inches taller than the woman. And goddamn, he was fine. The black band tee stretched just so around his chest and Christ, those biceps.

“You must be Han’s godson,” Rey’s voice snapped him out of his gawking. God, he must have been so obvious. For all he knew, the guy could’ve been Rey’s boyfriend.

Poe slapped on a polite smile before offering his hand. “Poe Dameron. Nice to meet you,”

“I’m Beatrice Dameron, but everyone calls me Beebee,” said a voice in an adorable toddler drawl. When the hell did she get out of the car? Was he really that distracted? “Nice to meet you,” Bee offered her hand mirroring him.

Rey crouched down to take her hand. “That’s a nice name. I’m Rey,”

“I asked you to stay in the car,” Poe hissed after Rey went to get the spare tire.

“I didn’t say yes,” Beebee answered before skipping away after Rey. Are four year olds even supposed to be that sassy? An amused chuckle drew his attention back to the handsome stranger.

“Cute kid,” his smile rivaled sunshine— shut up, inner-monologue.

“You’d think that, but before you know it she would have you wrapped around her little finger and you can’t say no to her,” The handsome stranger laughed again and something fluttered in Poe’s chest at the sound.

“I’m Finn, Rey’s roommate,” Oh goodie, not boyfriend then. “You new to town?” Finn asked. God, even his name was perfect.

“Technically, yeah. But it’s fortunate I got transferred somewhere with people I know, ya know,”

“What do you do?”

“Flight instructor at the airbase,” Poe shrugged nonchalantly. It was a brag, he knew it and judging by the arch of Finn’s eyebrows, he thought it was impressive too. “What about you?”

Before he could hear Finn’s answer, Beebee came barreling into Poe, screaming, “I’m gonna be a mechanic when I grown up!”

“That’s great, honey,” Poe lifted up his kid into his arms. Rey walked up behind her.

“You’re all set,” Poe looked at her on surprise. That was fast. After thanking the her for the help, Rey and Finn departed. He sighed forlornly. If only he still had game or time to date.

“You ready to leave now?” Bee nodded her head vigorously. There’s only so much desert one can tolerate.

—-

Han failed to mention his idiot godson was hot. Quite honestly, ‘hot’ wasn’t even doing justice to the head full of dark, gravity-defying curls either. Finn groaned out loud, tipping his head back into the head rest.

“He’s a pilot, Rey,” Rey straight up laughed at his pathetic whining. But Finn paid her no mind as usual. “Do you think he has those uniforms Air Force officers wear? I bet he looks so sexy in them,”

“I don’t know, you could just ask him,” Rey stated.

“Hell no! He has a kid, what if he’s straight? Or worse, what if he’s married?”

“Don’t say you didn’t see him checking you out! Besides, he wasn’t wearing a ring,” Finn briefly wondered when Rey got so observant.

“He wasn’t checking me out!” Finn spluttered.

“Oh ho ho, yes he was,” Rey exclaimed. “Very nearly drooled, too,”

“It doesn’t matter,” he deflated, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m probably not gonna see him again after this anyways,” he lamented.

“He’s Han and Leia’s godson, of course you’re gonna see him again,” as if on queue, Rey’s phone dinged again. “See who texted?” Finn skimmed through the message Han sent and groaned again. “What?”

“Han invited us to dinner, apparently Poe’s gonna be there too,” Finn swore Rey’s answering cackle could be heard for miles.

—-

#writer wednesday #finnpoe au #finnpoe #stormpilot #poe x finn #poe dameron #finn star wars

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itsuki-minamy · 3 years

Text

MEMORY STORIES: ONE MORE LIGHT

* Projects & Chapters

Translation: Naru-kun Raws: Ridia

Using an app called "Candle", the man who boarded the airship did not say a word to the airship's owner, Weissman, and simply wandered silently around the airship.

And Weissman also sat diagonally in the chair, watching the man with a certain melancholy and interest, not doing anything special to the strange guest.

Of course, people who used the app because they believed in the vague urban legend that "getting on a blimp will save you" often took strange actions, but in this man's case, the coat color was a little different.

"So are you satisfied?"

After a while, Weissman asked:

"Oh, more than I bargained for. Great."

The man clapped playfully. He seemed to be an honest man. He had a strong look like an old movie star and good style. However, the clothes he was wearing were slightly soiled, and the bangs on his back that normally would have politely tipped were altered.

There was also a stubble growing on the pale type.

Weissman placed the order with an amused and embarrassed look.

"Yes? I'm not sure, but can I just ask for one thing?"

"I wonder what?"

"I don't want you to open the door without permission. It's cold from the wind."

The man was playing with the operations panel without warning and opening the hatch that led from the airship to the outside.

The night sky was peeking out from there and the atmosphere was ringing. The man was standing near him, so if he made a mistake, he would fall headfirst to the ground.

"It's dangerous, especially. Hey."

Weissman said that.

"Is it dangerous? Hahahaha! Hahahaha!"

The man laughed and stumbled a little. He apparently had drunk a lot of sake too. Finally, Weissman stood up. He somehow he understood the purpose of the man. He approached slowly and carefully so as not to irritate him.

"Did you also get on this airship because you wanted me to help you? I don't know what I could do, but why don't you talk about the situation?"

The man stopped moving. He frowned in thought and then smiled.

"No! No! If you let me jump from here, that's fine! I don't need your help."

"With such a brilliant voice..."

Weissman sighed.

"Why do you bother doing it in my airship? In short, you want to commit suicide, right?"

"Yes."

"If I ask you to stop, will you tell me?"

"No, it is not good."

The man replied playfully.

"Because I've lived in good shape. I have to end up in good shape at the end of my life. When I jumped, I'll lie on my back, extend my limbs, and look at the night sky slowly. What? It's a good idea, right?"

"I think it's a metamorphic aesthetic... why should you die in the first place?"

"That's right. I think it's because I can't look good anymore."

The man crossed his arms, looked at the ceiling and said that. Weissman sighed. He had a strong feeling that it would take time to persuade him.

The strange conversation between Weissman and the man continued for some time. It was the result of Weissman's patience and hard work, that he continued to extract and organize meaningful information from the pretentious and esoteric rhetoric of man.

The man was the president who ran a large company. He showed off his talents at a young age and was included on the list.

He seemed like that person had a good life.

"Well, it was great. Really wonderful."

He had a good job, the private was also satisfying, he married four years ago and had a son.

"It was fun. My life was always wonderful. I will never forget those wonderful days."

Nevertheless…

"There are several things."

The man's eyes suddenly grew cold, as if floating in a dark light.

"I lost."

Weissman then realized. At first glance, he had a playful demeanor, but this man was serious. There was something like that about him.

"Can you tell me more about the different things? I want to think about what I can do."

When Weissman gently urged him to do so...

"Mmm..."

After being thoughtful for a while,

"I won't say it, because I'm sure I won't be cool anymore."

Weissman smiled, thinking carefully.

"Isn't your wife and son a reason to hold you back?"

"They are not."

The man was just smiling.

"Did you say that? I really lost everything. Maybe I could find them if I flew there."

Weissman looked at him.

"I see."

He knew the difficulty of giving something to a person who had lost an important person.

At that time, the airship shook a lot. Weissman, used to airship life, grew impatient for a moment, but immediately hit his knee to keep from falling. He knew that such a phenomenon would occur very rarely due to gusts and drafts.

After the large vibrations subsided, Weissman took a breath and then was shocked.

(That person! I was by the open hatch!)

When he looks at the man hurriedly...

"......"

The man leaned over and grabbed a bar near the hatch. Apparently it was really a crisis. He had a pale expression. He snuggled in on a harsh breath and struggled not to fall outside.

"......"

When Weissman got to his feet, he slowly walked over to the hatch control panel and pressed the button to open and close the door. The door closed with a loud noise. He couldn't hear the swell in the air, and suddenly the interior of the airship went silent.

"......"

Both Weissman and the man were silent.

Weissman didn't know what to say and the man's entire body was shaking.

Finally, when the waterfall-cold sweat subsided and the roots of his teeth lined up, the man coughed.

"It's not great, I'm like this now."

The silence continued for a while. Nevertheless…

"Fu…"

"Kukuku."

He started laughing.

Laughter came out somehow. He changed from a small laugh like a ripple to a tearful laugh. Finally, he breathed onto his shoulders and wiped the tears from the corners of his eyes with his fingers.

"Hey…"

The man called to Weissman. He had a strangely refreshing face, as if his depression had subsided.

"It's better to live, even if it's not great, right?"

"Yes."

Weissman replied after thinking for a moment.

"I thought so too and came to think so."

Weissman reached out to help the man. The man obediently took his hand and stood up.

++++++++++

Shiro and Kuro were shopping at Shizume. At the school festival, school volunteers and staff decided to donate, so they needed costumes to wear.

"The other things I need are a butterfly tie and a basin. What are you going to wear?"

When Kuro frowned and Shiro laughed, he sounded the horn. When they turned their faces to the noise, a pickup truck pulled up there and a man dressed in work clothes leaned out from the driver's seat and looked at him with a smile. Kuro had a mysterious look, but Shiro soon noticed.

"……!"

He was the man who wanted to kill himself, whom he met in his airship.

Instead of greetings and words of thanks, the man hit the car body as he said:

"I will make this company the best in Japan in three years!"

He declares it very strong. The van was painted with the company name and contact information for the cleaning company. And when the man raised his thumb, he started the car and drove off. He never looks back.

The gaping Kuro finally said in a scared voice.

"What was that?"

Shiro gently wiped away the tears in the corners of his eyes so Kuro wouldn't notice them before answering.

"He is a great person."

MEMORY STORIES: EXTRA (2021.09)

Explanation: 11 newly written stories.

In line with the theme of this book, which appears to be a collection of memories of "K" so far, the keywords "Remember those days" are used to spell the memories of 11 characters that will continue to live after the main story.

Miyazawa's comment:

I was originally planning a standalone book with this alone, but decided to put it on "K - All Memories". As an image, it is a jewelry box and album that stores precious memories that sparkled.

We would like to express our greatest thanks to those who have taken good care of "K".

#k #k project #k seven stories #k all memories #memory stories #isana yashiro #kuro yatogami #neko #silver clan

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of-a-chaotic-mind · 3 years

Text

Life After Losing Him

Summary: Reader goes about their new daily life but soon runs into the best friend they had lost several months prior.

TW/CW: Platonic!Reader x Sam and Dean Winchester (mostly Dean tbh). Classmate bullying Reader. Should College Student Reader be a warning? Bc I feel like it should lmao. Lots of swearing. Dean does the silver blade test so a wound and blade are mentioned. I don’t think there’s anything else but lmk if I should add something.

Requested?: Yes, a lovely Anon said, “Hello love, your writing is really good and I love how active you are on your account it’s very impressive I could never 🥰 I would be so honored if you could do a platonic imagine for me??? I had in mind like Dean going to hell and coming back and being mad at Sam because he stopped hunting and maybe being mad at reader for moving on and going to college/not trying to help Sam? Idk if that makes any sense lol”

Word Count: 1,880

A/N: So, Dean isn’t as angry as I could’ve written him to be, I didn’t really include Sam much in this one, and it’s mostly Reader going about her day in her new life. If enough of you want it, I could write a second part where Dean and Reader get home and talk to Sam or whatever. I hope this is alright. I personally really like some bits of it but as a whole it feels off to me for some reason.

Your POV

I grabbed the car keys off my side table before heading out my bedroom door with my backpack slung over my shoulder. I stopped in the kitchen to grab the lunch I had packed the previous evening and a thermos of coffee before heading out for another day of boring ass classes. When I enrolled at the local community college to major in folklore and mythology, I thought the classes would be more interesting and it would be a piece of cake but unfortunately, I got stuck with a boring professor who obviously didn’t even want to be teaching the class in the first place. I push the garage doors open before making my way over to the car. I open the door and drop down into the driver’s seat, set my thermos in the cupholder near my feet, and toss my backpack and lunchbox into the passenger seat. After closing the door, I sigh as I place my hands on the steering wheel, “Alright, Baby. Another day without him but I know you’ve still got my back.” I reach over and pat the dash before cranking the ignition and pulling out of the garage to head for school. The ride to school is quiet aside from the classic rock drifting softly through the speakers.

I manage to find a decent parking spot within walking distance of my class but have to mentally prepare myself before grabbing my coffee and backpack and stepping out of the car. I lock the doors, shut mine, and head towards class. On autopilot, I find the classroom that I need and take my usual seat near the front against a wall and turn my back to the wall as I always do. Aside from a few who like to get here early for the same reason I do, to get our favorite seats, the majority of the class hasn’t arrived yet so I pull out my notebook, pen, and coffee. I avoid all eye contact with the others in the room and label my notebook page for today’s lecture. For the most part, people around here seem to avoid me although I haven’t decided if it’s because I intimidate them or because they think I’m “one of those backwoods crazy people” or perhaps it’s both. Regardless, it suits me fine. I’m not here to make friends, I’m here to get a degree and do something useful with my new life. When he died, Sam and I both agreed to not try to find a way to bring him back and try to create a normal life. Every now and then, I secretly take a hunt but it’s usually nothing more than a basic salt and burn case. I did get a job at a local mechanic shop. They were practically begging me to take the job when I showed up for the interview in Baby.

I’m pulled from my thoughts as a loud group of guys enter the room. I try to ignore them but as per usual their little pack leader wants to try to ruin my day. He calls out to me but thankfully before he can start something, the instructor enters and tells him to have a seat. I’ll have to give this instructor points for at least not putting up with any bullshit like that in his class. Anyway, the rest of the class joins shortly and takes their seats and, on the dot, as always, the instructor starts his lecture. A miserable hour and a half later I have several pages of notes, most of which are completely false from a hunter’s perspective, about topics I already know the truth about just so I know what the instructor will expect on the test. The instructor dismisses us so I pack away all my things and head back to the car to eat lunch before my next class.

I’m about halfway back to the car, which is completely hidden by a huge, jacked up, 4x4 pickup truck, when the loud group of guys catches up to me and their leader calls out again, "Hey, nerd! Why don’t you stop for a second? I didn’t get a chance to take notes in class and I want to get pictures of yours.”

I ignore him and keep my head down as I mumble under my breath, “yeah because you were sleeping,” and continue to the car. As I come around the back end of the pickup and approach the car, I slam into something, or rather someone, sturdy and nearly get knocked on my ass if it weren’t for the person catching me. Out of instinct I go to grab my dagger out of its sheath under my sleeve but the person grabs my hand, “Don’t pull that thing out here. It’s just me.” Hearing that voice causes pure shock mixed with a touch of suspicion to wash over me. I look up and into the face of my formerly, dearly departed best friend, Dean Winchester. However, before I can ask questions or even test to make sure it’s him, the small group of my classmates rounds the end of the pickup truck causing Dean to push me behind him in a protective way.

The pack leader grins mischievously, “Who’s this? You know this guy, nerd?”

I roll my eyes but Dean speaks up for me, “I’m (Y/n)’s brother you little bitch. Now, fuck off and leave her alone.” In all honesty, Dean wasn’t biologically my brother but he and Sam have been the closest thing to having any siblings in general that I’ve ever gotten.

The pack leader looks around Dean at me, “This true?” I nod. He laughs, “Well, I don’t know which of you are driving this piece of junk but you should probably get with the times and stop driving this old rust bucket. Maybe you could upgrade to a nice truck like mine here,” he taunts patting the truck parked beside us.

“Your attention seeking, overcompensating piece of shit on wheels could never handle the things this car has been through,” Dean argues, stepping forward. I grab his arm and tug in attempts to get him to back down, no luck.

The guy scoffs, “Yeah right. I bet if your little friend behind you there hit a curb it’d tear this car to pieces.”

Before Dean can get into a fist fight, I unlock the car door and shove him in before climbing in myself. Unfortunately, the asshole doesn’t get the hint that I’m leaving and leans back against Baby. I check the mirrors to make sure that I’m not going to run anyone over before driving forward out of my spot, mentally thanking whoever didn’t park there or had just pulled out of the spot in front of me, causing the pack leader to fall on his ass. I laugh to myself as I watch in the rearview mirror and then take off. I find a secluded spot on campus to park so that I can test Dean, figure out what the hell happened with him, and eat my lunch before my next class in four hours. When I put the car in park, and look over, he’s already rolled his sleeve up and has a silver blade ready for the test. He presses the blade into his arm right above another wound that looks fresh.

“I figure if Sam wanted all the tests done then you definitely will,” he grumbles before wrapping his arm having sufficiently proven he’s not allergic to the silver. I grab the bottle of holy water that I keep in my backpack and hand it to him. He takes a sip of it before handing it back to me. I nod in understanding before grabbing my lunchbox to eat.

Once I’ve opened my sandwich, I take a bite, chew, and swallow before asking, “What happened this time?”

“I don’t know, Sam’s working on that now,” he pauses, watching me, “I’d like to know what the hell happened to you.”

“There it is again. You never call him Sam but that’s twice in just the past few minutes,” I muse, avoiding his question, “I guess you’re pissed at him because he stopped hunting?”

“Yeah, and it seems to me like you did too so why don’t you answer my question?” he replies.

I sigh, and toss my sandwich back onto the paper towel in my lap, “After we lost you, Sam and I agreed to not go looking for a way to bring you back and to start living a normal life. Granted, I always mentally thanked him for phrasing it that way because that meant if a way to bring you back fell into my lap then I could take the opportunity. Regardless, I got a job at a mechanic shop nearby and started classes here for a degree in folklore and mythology.”

He scoffs and whips his head around to look out the windshield, “So you stopped hunting too. What the hell is wrong with you two?”

“The two of us didn’t stop hunting. He did,” I snap back, “He doesn’t know it but I go on hunts every now and then when the apple pie life gets too boring.”

“What about that asshole back there? Why do you let him bully you?” he asks, nodding his head toward where we had come from earlier.

“He’s always trying to pick on me but I ignore him for the most part and keep my dagger in my sleeve just in case. The less attention I draw to myself the better.” I answer.

“You’re really balancing all this? Like, you go to class and study for exams and shit but then every now and then you go hunting during the weekend?” he asks and I nod. “So, what about Sammy?”

“He got a job, even been on a few dates but like I said, he stopped hunting, as far as I know anyway,” I respond. My phone dings before either of us could say anything else so I pick it up to check it and find that my instructor for my other class for today has sent out a message to cancel it for today. I toss the phone down onto the seat between us and stuff my sandwich and everything else I had pulled out back into my lunchbox before putting the car in drive and backing out of this spot.

“What are you doing?” he questions, once again. I swear if he doesn’t knock it off with the questions, I’m going to roundhouse his ass.

“Going home. My other class for today was cancelled,” I answer shortly.

He’s quiet until we get to the campus entrance, “Can we- uh- Can we stop and get a burger on the way?” I nod as I laugh at him. This is probably going to be weird to adapt to but we’ll figure it out. The three of us always figure things out. Honestly, if this turns into something bigger, as it usually does, then wouldn’t mind quitting school. Turns out it’s not all it’s cracked up to be and definitely not for me. I just hope Dean won’t sulk too long about how Sam and I handled life after losing him.

Masterlist

Taglist: @emiijemii @akshi8278 @deandaydreaming @castiels-majestic-wings @desimarie12

#dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester imagine #dean winchester imagines #dean winchester oneshot #dean winchester oneshots #sam winchester #sam winchester x reader #sam wimchester imagine #sam winchester imagines #sam winchester oneshot #sam winchester oneshots #supernatural #supernatural imagine #supernatural imagines #supernatural oneshot #supernatural oneshots

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thefloorisbalaclava · 4 years

Text

pragma - part five

Pairing: Frankie “Catfish” Morales x Female Reader

Warnings: mentions of abuse, angry Frankie (but not at you), light smut ;)

A/N: Back to your POV. I’ve really been enjoying writing this and I love all the feedback I’ve been getting! Thanks everyone!

Summary: After spending the night with Frankie again, you get a phone call about the last person you want to see.

pragma masterlist

You were used to waking up to birds singing but this morning they seemed to be singing particularly loud. You blinked a few times and realized you were outside. When your eyes finally adjusted to the bright sun, you tried sitting up but there was a heavy weight at your waist that held you tighter when you tried to move.

“Mm…not yet,” Frankie said sleepily. “Stay.” His eyes were still closed so you weren’t sure if he was awake or talking in his sleep.

“We can’t stay here forever.” You would feel a little silly if you were talking to a sleeping person.

“Why can’t we?” Frankie asked and now you knew he was awake. You tried to think of an answer but nothing came to you. Why couldn’t you? Spending the rest of your life living under the open sky with the man you…loved? Yes. Loved. You had no answer for him. The only thing you could do was curl up with him again.

“Wanna make out?” you asked jokingly.

“Are you seriously asking me that? Do you really think I’d turn you down?” He tucked his fingers under your chin and lifted your head so he could get to your lips…

Then your phone rang.

“Damn,” you whined, reluctantly pulling away from Frankie to reach into your pocket. It was your lawyer. “Hello?” When you sat up, Frankie’s brow furrowed in concern. “Okay. Right. Bye.” You hung up and immediately slid yourself out of the bed of the pickup.

“What’s wrong?” Frankie asked.

“I have to get home.”

“Okay but what’s wrong?” he repeated.

“My ex-husband…he needs to come by and get the rest of his stuff out of my house.” You rubbed your temples and groaned.

“That’s bad?”

“I don’t wanna see him.” You looked at Frankie. “I had so much fun with you yesterday and today I have to deal with this.”

“Hey, listen to me…” He hopped down from the truck and put his arms around you. “We’ll go and get it over and done with fast.”

“We?” you asked.

“Think I’d let you do this on your own?”

“Frankie,” you cried, wrapping your arms around him.

“Besides…I gotta see what this guy looks like. Is he one of those guys that wear a suit every day? And let me guess: he’s blond and has a name like ‘Bill' or ‘Tom’.”

You hid your face in his shirt and laughed. In a few seconds flat you went from crying to laughing. “He’s ‘John' actually.”

“Yikes…even worse than I thought.” He rubbed your back as you looked up at him. “What?”

“Thank you,” you murmured. Frankie wiped a tear from your cheek. “I’d love to stand here and let you hold me all day but we really should get back to my place.”

“Damn ex-husband.” He made a face and you laughed again before kissing him.

“You promise to behave?” you asked as he finally let you go and walked around to the driver’s side. He didn’t respond until you both were in the car.

“I can’t promise that. I already wanna punch the fucker in the face.”

“Frankie!” You slapped his arm. “Our lawyers will be there. No need to get you into any more legal trouble.” It came out before you could stop yourself but once you realized what you said, you froze and turned to him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to-"

“It’s fine.” He started the car and drove quietly for a while. “I’m not upset so stop worrying.”

“Still, I’m sorry.” You reached over and touched his thigh. He tensed then cleared his throat.

“Careful,” he warned, smiling over at you before looking at the road again.

You took your hand away sheepishly and stared ahead. “You’re not really gonna punch him, are you?”

“I said no promises.” He was completely serious now. “He made your life harder by not just signing those fucking papers…and now he wants the rest of his stuff…” He scoffed.

“You sound angrier than me.” You leaned over and kissed his cheek. “It’s kinda hot actually.”

“Are you…are you serious?” he chuckled.

“Maybe…” You sat back down, playing with your fingers until Frankie took one of your hands and held it.

“You’re nervous. You always pick at your fingers when you’re nervous or scared.” This man was stealing a piece of your heart with every word. “Wait, you’re not scared of him, are you? Did he do something to make you afraid?”

You shook your head but couldn’t look at him. “No.”

“You’re not telling the truth.” His eyes were on you but you still wouldn’t look at him.

“Eyes on the road,” you said trying to change the subject. Suddenly, he pulled over and turned off the car. His hands wrung the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white.

“What. The fuck. Did he do?”

“Nothing, Frankie. He was just…controlling. That’s all.” Your eyes filled with tears but you kept your head down so he wouldn’t see.

“How many times?” he asked.

“I’m fi-"

“How many times?!” he shouted and you flinched. He noticed his mistake right away and reached over to pull you onto his lap sideways. It was a little awkward with the steering wheel there but he made it work. “I’m sorry. I just can’t stand…I can’t handle the thought of a man putting his hands on you that way.” He kissed the top of your head as you sobbed into his shirt. “Did he?”

“Yes, but I was strong. Like you taught me.”

“That’s not what I was going for when I taught you how to fight, sweetheart. Look at me.” His callused hands cupped your face as you lifted your head. “Oh, cariño…” He put his forehead against yours and closed his eyes.

“I’m okay, Frankie.” You said it but you didn’t mean it and Frankie knew that. When he opened his eyes there was an anger in them but also sadness.

“He hurt you,” he whispered. “I’m gonna fucking kill him.”

“Frankie…no.” You shook your head and grabbed his face. “No.”

“He ever leave a mark?”

“It doesn’t matter now…”

“Did he?” he asked again and you nodded. “Where?” You slowly pointed to both of your cheeks then your left eye. Frankie moved your hand and kissed each spot you pointed to. And when you began crying again, he kissed your tears away. You never thought to use the word romantic to describe Frankie, but maybe you should start.

You eventually moved back to your seat though you preferred his lap over anything else. He started the car again and drove quietly, looking at you every once in a while. The closer you got to your house the more nervous you became but you weren’t sure if it was because you had to see your ex or if you were afraid Frankie would truly kill him.

“Are you gonna be okay?” he asked as he turned down the road to your house and you nodded. “I need to hear you say it.”

“Yes, I’ll be okay.” You smiled at him but you knew he wasn’t buying it. “Promise me you’ll control your temper.”

“Absolutely fucking not. I’ll make you any promise you want, just not that one.” He slowed down as he pulled up to the front of your house, spotting three other cars in the drive.

Your lawyer, your ex's lawyer, and your ex were all standing there waiting. You took a deep breath and Frankie squeezed your thigh. You hopped out of the truck and Frankie followed closely, bristling beside you.

“Let me-"

“Took you long enough,” your ex said then looked at Frankie like he was disgusted.

“Hello to you too, John.”

“This your new boyfriend?” He nodded at Frankie.

“Let’s just go in-"

“Could be,” Frankie cut in.

“Frankie…please,” you murmured.

“You could’ve done better, hon,” your ex added. Before you could speak, Frankie had stormed up to him and you shouted his name but there was no stopping him. He grabbed John by the collar and pulled him in very closely.

“I heard you like hitting women, hm? And if that’s the case then I’m already way better than you’ll ever be, you sorry sack of shit!”

“Can someone get this caveman off of me?” You closed your eyes at John’s words because you knew what was coming next. You heard a hit connect and opened your eyes in time to see John holding his nose. “He broke my fucking nose!”

“Dammit Frankie.” You ran over and grabbed him. “Go get in the car.”

“Next time you wanna hit someone come and find me,” Frankie said before turning and walking away.

“I’m pressing charges!” your ex yelled and you rolled your eyes.

“Won’t do any good. Now hurry up and go get your stuff and leave, please. It’s all in the garage so there’s no reason for you to go anywhere else.” You smirked at him cowering and holding his nose before walking back to the truck.

“Don’t look at me like that. I told you I couldn’t promise I wouldn’t hurt him. He’s lucky I didn’t do more.” He massaged his hand and you got in the truck.

“Let me see.” You grabbed his hand carefully and looked at it. “It’s gonna be bruised but you’ll be okay. Definitely better than John’s gonna be. I think you actually broke his nose.”

“I know I did. I heard it.”

“He says he’ll press charges but I doubt it. If he does then we’ll deal with it.” You kissed his hand before letting it go.

“Fucking prick,” Frankie mumbled.

“That he is.”

“Is he the reason why you didn’t come back sooner?”

You nodded and sighed. “If I came back to town with a bunch of bruises on my face…”

“Back then I definitely would’ve killed him. I had nothing to lose." He looked at you. “But now…” Your lawyer knocked on the window making you jump. You rolled the window down and hoped he wasn’t going to tell you bad news.

“John is not going to press charges,” he said. “You’re lucky.”

“Thanks,” Frankie said without looking at him. He looked up and saw John walking out the garage with a box. His hands immediately balled into fists but you touched his arm and he relaxed.

“Take care,” your lawyer said as you stuck your arm out the window to shake his hand.

“Thanks. You too.” You made sure Frankie stayed in the car until all three men drove away. The way he glared at John’s car as he pulled away made you worry that maybe he would chase him down. “Let’s go inside.”

You sighed in relief and leaned against the door as soon as you closed it. “That was…something.” You watched as Frankie walked around the living room. He had calmed down now but you…you were on edge and not in the bad way. You breathed heavier and had to bite your lip to keep yourself from sounding like you were panting.

Frankie had always, always, been attractive to you and right now it seemed like you were discovering how handsome he was all over again. You needed to stop. It was time to cool down.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah. I’m going to take a shower.” You could hardly look at him as you zoomed past him and up the stairs.

“Guess I’ll take one too!” he shouted up to you.

In your bedroom, you undressed quickly and got in the shower. You stood there for a time doing nothing. Well, you thought of Frankie and how he was prepared to beat the crap out of someone. How he answered ‘could be' when John asked if he was your boyfriend. How he could be so gentle with you and so rough with someone else at the drop of a dime.

“Okay. Okay. Enough.” You washed yourself then turned the shower off. After wiping the mirror clean, you brushed your teeth then wrapped yourself in a towel. The last thing you were expecting to see was Frankie standing there in nothing but a towel but there he was. You stumbled backward slightly and put a hand to your chest.

“Didn’t mean to scare you. I just…I couldn’t find the, uh…” He tried his best to avert his eyes. “The robe from last time.”

“It wasn’t down there?” you asked. Obviously not, you idiot.

“No…but I’ll go check again.”

“Frankie wait!” You grabbed his arm and he turned to you again. “I just wanna…wanna say thank you for…what you did today was…”

“I’m sorry you had to see it.”

“I’m not.” You pulled his head closer so you could kiss him. At first, he hesitated but when he heard you moan, he lost whatever control he had. Your towel was slowly but surely loosening itself from around your body but it didn’t matter. His lips on yours, his hands on your body, that mattered.

When you started to push him backwards towards the bed, he craned his head to see where he was going. “Frankie. Kiss me.” His legs hit the bed and he fell onto it, staring up at your now naked body.

“I’ll kiss you,” he said then began kissing the first thing his lips could find: your stomach. You pulled him away and climbed onto his lap. “Where else?”

“Just fucking kiss me. Please,” you begged. This time the kiss was a little rougher, teeth and tongue. If you nipped at him, he nipped back. You moved back on his lap a little and slid your hand down the front of his towel. He grunted and pulled away from the kiss to watch your hand. There wasn’t much to see because of the towel but he sure could feel.

“Jesus…fuck...” He pulled your hand away with a growl then lifted you so he could put you down on the bed. “I gotta ask…are you this turned on over me punching your fucking ex?” He smirked.

“And other things,” you breathed trying to pull him in for a kiss but he resisted and sat up to look at you.

“You’re fucking gorgeous, you know that?” His hands explored you, stopping at your breasts to gently pull on your nipples. You could tell he loved your reaction because he did it over and over again.

“Frankie, I need…”

“Need what?” he asked, leaning forward again and kissing your lips.

“I need you.”

“Are you sure you want this? Want me?” He kissed you again so you could only nod and make a sound of approval. “Need to hear it.”

“Yes, I’m sure. I’m so sure.” You wrapped your legs around him and used your feet to push his towel off.

“Thank God,” he said. “Been wanting this for so long. So bad.” He kissed you all over, slowly working his way down until you felt his hair tickling your inner thighs. He took your hand and laced his fingers with yours before nipping at your thigh.

“Please…”

“Keep looking at me. Keep holding my hand, okay?”

“Okay Frankie.” You looked down at him and he pushed his hair out his eyes.

“Good girl.” The praise alone was enough to make you tremble, but he was about to make you see stars and you didn’t even know it yet.

[six]

Tags: @cable-kenobi @saltywintersoldat @ahopelessromanticwritersworld @pedrosdoll @psychobillybunny @behindmyeyes-insidemyhead @keeper0fthestars @mrsparknuts @thinemineours @huliabitch @synystersilenceinblacknwhite

#frankie morales #frankie morales x reader #francisco 'catfish' morales #triple frontier #pedro pascal #headcanon

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silverhyenaart · 3 years

Text

Alright, I'm fairly new to the "Reader Insert" style of writing, but I thought I'd give it a try. So, I have yet to do a little sketch of Lester (I did draw his two brothers,) However, I did have this idea for a sick-fic, where Lester finds the reader on the side of the road. Now, I wrote this with a female reader in mind but please feel free to imagine it any way you see fit.

Roadside Attraction Part #1

No one would ever argue that the tiny, reclusive town of Ambrose was a quiet place. The occasional group of tourists or stranded motorists made for some excitement, but there hadn't been any new visitors in over a month.

A crooked smile crossed Lester's face as his old truck ambled along the backroads.The morning was still plenty young. Bo was more than likely sleeping off a night of one too many beers. Vincent was surely working on The House of Wax's next great masterpiece in his basement studio lair. That left Lester to do what he loved. Gather up the roadkill! However... the youngest Sinclair was about to get more than he ever could have bargained for.

"Still plenty cool outside, huh Daisy?" Lester muttered, scratching at his flannel shirt pocket, "hopefully we git some meat befer the sun ruins it."

He was answered by a curious chiding as the tiny raccoon in his pocket peaked out.

There were so many things besides the animal carcasses on the side of the road. And while yes, half of a deer that had yet to be tainted by maggots and Louisiana heat was indeed a fine prize to return home with, Lester had also found the occasional wad of cash, various coins, jewelry, and his personal favorite, the woodland creatures that he'd take home and foster. (Always making them promise that they'd stay away from the roads before releasing them back into the wild.)

But instead of the usual gorey animal corpse splattered in the road or abandoned wrecked vehicle, Lester saw what was unmistakably a human body in the ditch near a heavily wooded stretch of road. Your body!

The brakes of the rickety old truck screeched on the pavement. Quickly, Lester put the truck in reverse, stopping as close to your prone form as possible. There was no telling how long you'd been left out there in the Louisiana backwoods, but it was obvious that you'd been severely mistreated before being dumped out here. In fact, one could have easily written you off as dead. Bruised, dried blood caking in places, old, sour vomit in the grass near your mouth, and your wrists bound behind your back tightly with course rope.

"Well Daisy, ain't sure there's nothin' more ta do then give 'er ta Vinny," Lester mused, quietly as he examined what he thought was your corpse, "Poor thing, won't do no good no how bringin' er to the pit. Sure Vinny'll fix 'er up real nice."

When his hand touched your hip to turn you over for a better look, that's when a weak moan escaped your chapped lips and your eye cracked open. Lester jumped back a little in surprise. You were still alive! Albeit in dreadful shape. But breathing nevertheless.

"Hey... hey there now. This ain't no place fer a nice young lady like ya ta be," Lester said, reaching for the Bowie knife on his belt.

Upon seeing the glint of steel in the morning light, your unfocused eyes widened in fear. With your entire body feeling like a led weight, struggling was impossible. After spending an entire day out here in your already terrible condition, just moving made you feel like your already empty stomach was going to purge once more.

Then the ropes binding your wrists snapped, giving your painfully raw skin welcome relief. Dirty yet gentle hands helped you to your feet. While it was difficult to focus, you could tell that your rather smelly but kind-hearted guardian angel was one of those backwoods redneck sorts. If anything, his accent alone gave it away.

"That's it now, com'n, sweat pea, I-I'ma take ya somewhere safe."

Lester helped you to his truck's passenger side, letting you lean heavily against him. He smiled, having been unable to recall the last time he'd had a woman of any sort willingly be this close to him. Usually it was his big brother who got the pretty ladies.

"Y-you can jus' call me Lester, now, darlin'," your rescuer continued.

As Lester guided you toward his beat up old pickup and opened up the passenger side door, you could feel your already upset stomach doing flip flops. You stumbled a little, clinging to this man as though he were your only remaining life line... and then your body betrayed you.

You trembled, eyes wide with horror, able to make out that you'd just thrown up all over your savior. Before you could squeak out an apology, you were doubled over as more bile forced itself out of your already sore throat, leaving a sour taste in your mouth.

"W-well now, sweat pea, better ta git it out now..." shrugged Lester, taking a red handkerchief out of his back pocket and handing it to you.

Even after you'd accidentally barfed all over him, this man was still taking care of you. Once you were cleaned up a little, Lester grabbed a very messy towel out of his truck and wiped himself off. Daisy peaked out of his pocket, quickly retreating back to safety when you let out a low groan.

"S-sorry m-mister..." you rasped, nearly staggering to the ground you were so weak.

"I-it's alright. You ain't hurtin' no one... jus' git it out," Lester said, "That's it, now."

He hesitated at first, then began to gently rub your back and hold your hair out of the way. You couldn't lie to yourself, it felt good. The first bit of tenderness you've been shown in a long time.

Once you were through purging your painfully empty stomach, Lester gave you some lukewarm water from a questionable looking plastic bottle and helped you into the passenger seat. It wasn't until he closed the door that your tired eyes noticed that there was no way to open it from the inside nor was there any means to roll down the window.

Was this man actually helping you or taking this opportunity to kidnap you? At this point, you were too sick and exhausted to care.

Another crooked grin crossed Lester's face as he scratched his little raccoon's head. After settling into the driver's seat, he checked on you again before the old truck's engine rumbled to life.

"Don'cha worry none, sweat pea. I'ma take ya home a-an' gitcha somethin' ta make ya feel better. "

Home... you didn't have one anymore. Slowly, you nodded your head, leaning against the dirty window before closing your eyes.

* * *

Yes, I love the idea that Lester takes care of orphaned baby woodland critters he finds on the side of the road. A lovely individual in the discord group I'm in suggested it and told me to roll with it so I did! (Daisy seemed like the perfect cute redneck name so there's that!)

I do plan to make more parts and post the whole thing to my AO3. The stinky roadkill man deserves love! He also strikes me as the friendliest of the three Sinclair brothers.

#Lester Sinclair #house of wax #fanfiction #sick fic #Lester #writing #house of wax fanfiction #i just enjoy writing #there will be a part 2 #sinclair brothers #i love the stinky roadkill man

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