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ithinkhesgaybutwesavedmufasa · 4 years

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Addicted to You

Part II: All Along the Watch Tower

Summary/Reader’s Notes: In this part the boys head to Columbia to do some reconnaissance. They all find out why they are really there and as expected...Frankie does not handle it well. There will obviously be more ‘reader’ centric parts as time goes on. I thrive for your thoughts and comments. **Shout out to @rae-gar-targaryen for being an amazing person and helping me with translations. The italics are either Spanish, with the translations in ( ) or they are the boys talking over the coms as a reminder that they are spread out and not near one another--let me know if that reads okay or if there is a better way to do the Spanish/English in the paragraphs.

Pairing: Frankie “Catfish” Morales x Pope’s sister!Reader Word Count: 5k (this is a theme...) Warnings/rating: R/18+ Language, derogatory language, STRONG kidnapping elements, blood, violence, execution/death, general Frankie DISTRESS. Angst, Bro Hugs, Man tears, TOM. (I am in pain after this. Please give me your feelings)

Part I

MASTERLIST

Seventeen thousand dollars for one week of reconnaissance wasn't anything to shake a stick at. And Frankie was almost ashamed to say when Pope told them that was the initial pay out, they all jumped on it without knowing many details. Times were tough. Tom was going through a divorce, paying two mortgages, and scraping by as a piss-poor real estate agent. And in the words of Pope, the real crime was that he had been shot for his country five times and couldn't afford to send his daughters to college. Will was still giving pep talks, to kids barely old enough to drink, through the recruiting agency and traveled so much settling down and having a family wasn't an option. Benny was street brawling in a cage every Friday night for what he could make playing penny slots up at the casino. And Frankie--well, Frankie drifted from one job to the next, never having a job long enough to get basic health insurance and pay for anything that would help the nightmares he had every night. So, maybe it wasn't all that sad when the four of them jumped at the idea of making five figures for a week of work.

They had each packed a bag and flown over the borde into Columbia where they spent the first day letting Pope show them around and talk about the terror that narcos like Lorea was unleashing on the country. He laid it on pretty thick when honestly, he didn't need to. They were already there. No backing out now.

Somewhere on the outskirts of the city Pope had a storage unit that was basically full of everything they would ever need for recon work. They loaded up on assault rifles and ammunition, radio communication tools, med kits, binoculars and scopes, hell, he even had fucking night vision goggles for each of them. Pope tossed Frankie a bulletproof vest and he strapped it on, still looking at the impressive wall to wall unit of tactical gear. He knew he had been after Lorea for three years, but this was excessive, especially if it had all been paid for by the Columbian government.

As far as the four of them knew, this mission was off the grid. Pope had cut a deal with local authorities and had intel that Lorea had about seventy-five million dollars of drug money holed up in the middle of the fucking jungle. If they decided to take the job after the recon, well, they got to keep twenty five percent of it. Frankie couldn't even begin to think what he would do with that kind of money. But he couldn't shake the feeling that there was something Pope wasn't telling them. He spent the majority of the first leg of the trip waiting for the proverbial shoe to drop.

“Holy shit,” Will whistled as Pope showed them the storage unit. “Where did you get all of this, man?”

“I told you,” Pope said, tossing a vest at the blond. “I’ve been after this guy for three years. The Columbian government is extremely motivated--if I say I need it, it shows up within a week or two.”

Benny picked up one of the assault rifles and flipped it over in his hand, examining the mag chamber and nodding. “Must be nice.”

“Listen,” Pope stopped digging through the supplies and looked at them. “I need to know you guys are sure about this. Lorea isn’t in some hole in the jungle--it’s a mansion. We’re talking guards, barbed wire fencing, security cameras. That’s why the reccie is so important.”

“We get it, man,” Tom said holding out his hand. “It’s serious shit. Now give me my com.” Tom held out his hand and Pope put a radio and earpiece in his palm. And that was that. They were all in.

The next day the five of them were in the thick of it. Frankie moved slowly through the trees, big, lush green leaves slid along his arms and torso as he stepped carefully through the mud and sticks. His steel-toed boots were quiet enough for this terrain but he kept his eyes peeled for any trip wires or trigger cameras.

Will walked alongside him, mirroring his footsteps with about ten feet between them as they swept a path towards the chain link fence that surrounded the perimeter. Pope and Tom had set up a vantage point on the hill, using binoculars to walk them through the path and tell them what they were up against.

It was humid as fuck and his shirt clung to his back and he felt a bead of sweat start to drip down from the brim of his hat. As he smacked a mosquito off of his arm he remembered there was a reason he had moved back to Texas.

“What are we lookin’ at, Cat?” Tom said over the radio and his voice came clearly into Frankie’s ear.

“I got two guards by the south end.” He clicked the button on his headset and kept moving.

“Looks like I got one by the gate,” Will confirmed. “How reliable is this informant, Pope?”

“She’s good for her intel.” Pope answered simply.

Pope’s informant was a local, who apparently had been feeding him information off the grid for a ticket out of the country and a small cut of the money they recovered. Apparently she drove a van onto the base like clockwork to deliver loads of Lorea’s cash. Some of the guys, mainly Tom, figured the intel was bullshit and Pope was too trusting because he had most likely been balls-deep in this broad. But if Pope trusted her, then so did Frankie.

“Yeah, that means she’s smokin’ hot.” Benny said, from his spot on the north side of the Mansion. “Blonde or Brunette? I’m trying to paint a picture here while I sweat my ass off in these fuckin’ trees.”

“Fuck off,” Pope said flatly.

“Keep the radios clear, assholes,” Tom said with annoyance in his voice. “Focus.”

Frankie walked a few more feet, making sure he stayed in the cover of the foliage as he peered through the links. And clear as day he saw their first issue. A young girl, probably about ten years old, ran past one of the guards chasing after a soccer ball, before a young boy stole it from her and they ran back into the house.

“Shit.” He cursed. “Pope, we got kids here. Does he have kids living here with him? Because if he does that complicates things and that is not what I signed up for.”

“The family’s not the problem,” Pope’s voice came through his ear. “They’re the answer.”

“Why?” Frankie felt the anger in his voice but he couldn’t stop it. He did not sign up to hurt kids. Drug lords? Sure. Their guards? Absolutely. If it shot at him then he would shoot back--but kids did not fit that criteria.

“Church.” Pope said like that answered everything and the rest of them waited in silence for him to continue. “Lorea is very devout. Every Sunday morning he sends three guards to the six AM service. When they get back, he sends the rest of the team with his family down to mass. That leaves him and three guards in that house. That’s our way in.”

“Why would he do that?” Will said.

“Worried about someone taking his kids,” Pope shrugged. “And he never leaves his money.” There was a pause over the radio before Pope continued, “Plus--I don’t think he expects anyone to actually have the balls to try and rob him.”

“What does that say about us?” Will said, approaching the fence line and looking through a few of the slats. “Shit…”

“What do ya got, Will?” Tom said over the com and everyone waited with baited breath.

“I got an execution about to go down.”

Silence was over the coms as they all waited to hear more details. Frankie lowered his binoculars and stepped carefully over the fallen branches on the forest floor. Once he was next to Will, he peered through the slats in the worn down boards that leaned against the fence. Sure enough, there were a handful of men on their knees in the dirt, burlap bags over their heads as one of Lorea’s henchmen pressed the barrel of a handgun to the back of their skull.

“Fuck,” Frankie whispered, shaking his head.

Will closed his eyes as the first shot rang out and the man at the beginning of the line fell to his knees in a splatter of his own blood and brain matter. “Not our place, man.” The blond whispered and he was right. Going in there to stop whatever was happening would do nothing but get them killed.

That’s when they heard the screaming.

“No!” her voice rang out as another shot echoed in the courtyard of the mansion and the second hostage fell beside the first. "¡Pare! ¡Pare, por favor-- no hicimos nada! Déjame ir." Maybe if you tried Spanish they would listen to you, but you doubted it. (“Stop! Stop--please, we didn’t do anything--let me go!)

Frankie felt his stomach drop to his feet. He knew that voice. He would be able to pick her voice out of a crowd anywhere. He had heard her happy. He had heard her sad. He knew the way she whispered sweet nothings in his ear. However, what he had never heard was the near hysterical level of fear that her voice held now.

“What the fuck?” Will whispered as realization dawned on him too and the pair watched another of Lorea’s lackies pull you from the van screaming and kicking as hard as you could.

Your blindfold had fallen off in the transport from the city to the jungle in the middle of nowhere and although your hands were still zip tied in front of you, that didn’t stop you from trying like hell to get away. The burly bald man that pulled you from the van wrapped a large arm around your chest and picked you up off the ground. You continued to scream as they shot another one of your crew in the execution line and finally your assailant put his hand over your mouth.

“(Y/n)...” Frankie wanted to puke. Your screams cut through him like a knife. The physical pain he felt in his chest as he watched you with wide eyes was almost too much to bear. His feet started to walk him toward the gate before he even realized he was moving.

“Cat!” Will hissed, getting up from his hiding spot and grabbing him by the back of the shirt.

“Let me go--” Frankie tried to shove him off, keeping his voice down as much as he could. His hands shook, his knees felt like they were going to give out, but he had to get to you. His body was moving faster than his brain was processing. Why the fuck were you here? Here of all places.

Will tightened his grip and pulled him back down to his crouched hiding position. “You walk in there now, you’re dead and so is she!” Will all but begged him to listen to reason. “I don’t know why she’s here but at least she’s alive.”

Frankie held his jaw tight as he looked at Will and then back to the fence.

“Pope,” Benny said over the radio from his vantage point. “Did you know she was here?”

The radio stayed silent. Frankie put one knee on the ground to balance himself. He bit his lip and nodded to Will. He would stay put for now. But if they tried to kneel you down in the execution line, he was going in--with or without the others.

As the bald man put his hand over your mouth you did the only thing you could think of and bit down hard on his fingers, driving your heel backwards against his shin. He dropped you like you had burned him and you stumbled, catching yourself on your bound hands before getting back up and trying to run.

“Cuca!” the man cursed, shaking his hand out and quickly lunging to grab you by the hair. When you tried to kick him again he spun you around and back handed you across the face.

You hit the ground hard, a small cry coming from the back of your throat as your face hit the dirt. You could already feel the twinge in your lip and taste pennies on your tongue as you spat a small bit of blood onto the gravel. Hoping that you could close your eyes and this would all have been a dream, that's what you did. The fucker had hit you hard enough that you coughed, a hollow ache settling in your chest as you fought to not let yourself cry.

A smaller man exited the van and saw what was happening and slapped the bald lackie on the back of his head. "No dañe la mercancía!" (Don’t damage the merchandise)

"Esta puta necesita un bozal." The bald man spat back as he grabbed you by the hair and pulled you to your feet. (This bitch needs a muzzle)

“Lorea estará muy enojado…” The smaller man scoffed and waved off the bald man, heading back across the yard. (Lorea is going to be upset.)

Cunt. Merchandise. Bitch. Frankie listened to them degrade you and he felt the bile rise up in the back of his throat. He wanted to kill each and every one of them. No. Not just kill. He wanted to make them suffer. He wanted to smash that bastard's head against the bricks over and over until he could never lay another finger on you, or anyone else, ever again. He wanted to shove the barrel of his own gun inside that prick's mouth and pull the trigger until there was nothing left of his skull but a handful of teeth.

Frankie started to move forward again and Will grabbed him before he could get more than a couple of steps.

"Frankie!" He all but pleaded as Frankie tried to fight his grip with a grunt and they both struggled in the leaves. Will put his arms around the other man's shoulders in sort of a modified choke hold and kept him stationary.

"You gotta let me go man--they’re gonna hurt her." Frankie tried desperately. His throat was tight, his heart was pumping way too fast, he couldn't just sit here. "I have to go get her--"

"I can't do that, brother," Will shook his head and tightened his grip ever so slightly. "It's a death sentence and you know it. We gotta regroup. Come up with a plan. We'll get her--I promise."

Frankie watched helplessly as they took you inside the mansion and out of his sight. Two years. It had been almost two years since he had seen your beautiful face. Two years since that night after playing pool at that dive bar on the outskirts of Dallas. Two years since he had smelled your skin or tasted your lips and yet there you were--just as goddamn beautiful as he always remembered and he couldn't get to you.

"Whatta ya want to do, Pope?" Benny's voice came over the coms and brought them all back to their present task. "You're running this shit show."

"Meet back at the trailhead entrance. We'll go over everything and come up with a plan." Pope's voice said much too calmly in response and Frankie hated him for it.

He knew. He had known from the minute he showed his face back in Texas that you were here. He had lied to his friends and worst of all he had lied to Frankie. But why? Pope knew better than any of them how close Frankie was to you--that you were special to him.

He jerked his arms free from Will's grasp and stood up. He wouldn't do anything rash, he needed time to think. Ripping his hat off and squeezing the bill in his hand he cursed quietly and ruffled his own hair furiously. "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!" He growled as he started back towards the rendezvous point, not bothering to look or even care where he was going. He ripped the com from his ear and let it hang useless from the collar of his shirt.

“We need to get the fuck out of this jungle.” Will watched him go and squeezed the button on his radio again. "Cat's not doing so hot, man."

"Yeah, no shit." Benny retorted. “I can’t imagine why.”

“Easy, smartass,” Will warned.

"Don't let him go in that house and blow our cover." Tom said, flatly. As if he really thought Will would be stupid enough to let such a thing happen.

"Way ahead of you." Will snapped back before getting up to follow his friend back through the trees.

---

The five of them drove from the mansion in silence. By the time the Jeep crawled its way out of the rough terrain of the jungle the sun had already set. Crickets were starting to chirp and a few fireflies speckled the tall grasses on the sides of the road as dusk took over. Will drove with Pope in the passenger seat and Frankie in the back, purposely putting distance between the two men for the ride to the small village that they were staying at.

No one said anything until Will parked the car in the gravel in front of a dive bar and all four doors opened as they climbed out. Before any of them could blink, Frankie walked around the car and grabbed Pope by the lapels of his button up shirt and slammed him back against the side of the Jeep.

“Fish!” Will said, but Pope held up his hand and waved the blond off as he winced. Frankie had had the entire drive to stew about this and he more than deserved whatever he had to say.

“You knew,” Frankie grit his teeth and got close to Pope’s face. “You fucking knew she was here and you said nothing!”

“Is that true, Pope?” Benny asked, sticking a cigarette behind his ear.

“Yeah,” Pope whispered and nodded his head.

“Why?” Frankie hissed and pulled him forward slightly, pushing him back against the jeep again, not bothering to be gentle about it. “Why wouldn’t you fucking tell us, man? Why wouldn’t you tell me??”

Frankie couldn’t keep his voice from cracking at the end and at this point he didn’t care. The thought of you in the hands of a Columbian drug lord was something he could barely fathom. Were you scared? Of course you were. Had Lorea let any of his guys touch you? Hurt you more than he had seen in the driveway? There wasn’t a way for him to tell you that they were coming to get you. You were alone--and he couldn’t do a damn thing.

“I needed to know that you guys were in this because you wanted to be--not because you would feel guilty if you said no. This is dangerous. We have no support. No back up. No med e-vac. We are on our own.” He said each word pointedly, looking from Frankie to the other guys individually before back to the man in front of him. “I needed to know that you accepted that because you wanted to and not just because my little sister was in trouble.”

“Trouble?” Frankie, laughed bitterly and shook his head. “You’re something else, Santiago. A flat tire is trouble. Getting laid off is trouble--she could have been killed.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Pope bit back, finally raising his voice a little. “Do you think this has been easy for me? That’s (y/n) in there! I’m her brother! I’m the one that chose the dangerous career--she was supposed to be safe!”

“How long have you known?” Tom asked.

“A few days,” Pope said, quietly. “I knew she was in the area because we were supposed to meet up. When she never showed the locals said Lorea had ambushed a group of Americans--journalists, a couple doctors. I tracked the ping off of her cell for a day, but then I lost it. I knew he had to have her.”

“Goddamn,” Tom said, shaking his head.

“I knew I needed help,” Pope looked back up at them. “And if I use any of the guys down here, Lorea will get whiff of this thing and he will be gone--and so will she.”

“Whose money is it?” Tom asked and Pope looked at him with a carefully blank face.

“It’s complicated. You were paid through a third party LLC--”

“Ehhh, it’s not that complicated. A hundred thousand dollars for a recon--,” Tom said sarcastically. “Whose money is it, Pope?”

Pope sighed and shook his head. “It’s my money.”

“Hijo de puta,” Frankie cursed and let out a pissed off chuckle. (Son of a bitch)

“That doesn’t change anything!” Pope tried but none of them were having it.

“Of course it does!” Will said, letting his voice get louder for the first time that night. “You thought you had to pay us to--” He stopped himself and took a deep breath.

Frankie eased his grip on the other man’s shirt a little bit and bit his lip. His chest ached. His heart felt hollow between his ribs and he wished the rock that was sitting in his throat would go away and let him take a deep breath as well.

“How could you think that we would have said ‘no’?” Will asked. “We care about her too--she’s your family.”

“That’s exactly why I didn’t tell you the truth!” Pope pointed at him and squared his jaw. “If it was personal you all would have followed me blindly and I needed it to be your own choice.”

“You’re an idiot, Pope,” Benny said less tactfully and Will elbowed him in the ribs.

Pope wasn’t listening to them. He was focused on his best friend and he said the only thing he could think of. “I’m sorry, Frankie.” He was sorry, more than he could express. He didn’t want to be doing this, to see the people he cared about most going through this shit-storm. But they were here and it was up to him to get everybody out safe.

Frankie released him abruptly letting Pope fall back against the Jeep and leaving his shirt wrinkled from his white-knuckled grip. He shook his head and rubbed a large hand over his eyes and down his face. “I need a minute.” He kept his voice low, trying to keep his emotions at bay as he stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jeans and walked off into the dark of the parking lot, focusing on nothing more than putting one foot in front of the other.

The four of them were left in silence as they watched him go.

“So, what about the money?” Tom finally spoke and Benny chuckled.

“Fuck you, man,” Will shook his head and fought the urge to roll his eyes. “I’ll go see if he’s okay.” He nodded in the direction Frankie went before walking away.

Pope rubbed the back of the neck and nodded. He looked back at Tom. “The intel on the money is still valid. Lorea is still running a fully operational drug business. It’s just an added bonus to if we can pull this off.”

“Good,” Tom nodded and crossed his arms. He jerked his head over towards the patio of the bar. “Come on. You owe us a drink and we need to come up with a plan.”

---

Frankie put the cigarette between his lips and flicked it to life with his metal lighter. He inhaled deeply, pocketing the metal square and closing his eyes to rub them furiously with the back of his hand. What was he supposed to do now? How was he supposed to wait all night before they loaded up and headed out?

He thought about the last time he saw you. I missed you. He always missed you. The way you said his name, the way you smelled, the way your arms wrapped around his waist as you laid your head against his chest--he missed it all.

“Shit,” he cursed quietly, moving the cigarette from his lips so he could wipe the couple of tears that had fallen off of his cheeks.

“Cat?” Will asked, and Frankie stayed facing away from him.

“Yeah?” he said with a clearing of his throat, but he knew he wasn’t fooling anyone, least of all Will.

“You okay?” Will asked, not knowing what else to say.

“Oh, yeah,” Frankie nodded, taking another drag off of his smoke and blowing it back out through his nose. “I’m great.” His tone was hateful, but he couldn’t make it sound any other way and Will knew it wasn’t directed at him.

“She’s gonna be okay, man--”

“Is she?” He angrily threw his cigarette onto the ground and twisted it under his boot. “How long have we been doing this? How long have we gone after guys like him?”

“Frankie--”

He took a step closer to Will and pointed his finger into his chest but Will stayed perfectly still. “Guys like Lorea do whatever the fuck they want until guys like us stop him. They take and they take and he has her! Why? Why did it have to be her?”

Will swallowed hard as he watched Frankie’s eyes get wider. It may have been the middle of the night, but the light of the crescent moon couldn’t hide the water that was pooling at the edge of his eyes. Will’s own heart broke for the desperate man in front of him. Of course he cared for you, too, but it was nothing compared to the torch that Frankie held for you. They all knew that.

“What if he hurts her?” Frankie, dragged his hand down his mouth and rubbed his jaw, trying to steady his shaking words. “What if--”

“We can’t think like that. You cannot think like that.” Will shook his head and put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “We’re going to go in that fucking mansion tomorrow and we are not leaving without her. I promise you that.”

“What if he’s already killed her? And I never got to--” Frankie bit his lip and looked out into the street with a shake of his head. “And I never got to--” He couldn’t say it. He couldn’t put into words all of the things that he never got to do when it came to you. And now, for the life of him, he could not come up with a single thing that was so important that it had stood between the two of you all of these years. He closed his eyes and fell silent, not even resisting when Will pulled him into a vice-like embrace and clapped him on the shoulder a few times.

“We’re gonna get her back. And you’re going to tell her everything you’re thinking. Okay?” Will lowered his voice and squeezed Frankie’s shoulders in support. All Frankie could do was nod and hope he was right.

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#Frankie Morales #triple frontier #frankie morales x reader #pedro pascal #pedro character fic #santiago garcia #oscar isaac #frankie catfish morales #Fun fact All along the watch tower was the original name of this fic but I thought it was too long #So you get it as a chapter name because I fucking love me some jimi #addicted to you #I fucking love writing angst man and idk what that says about me as a person but im having a BLAST with this #do yourself a favor and listen to Jimi Hendrix while watching that gif #its life changing #like a gearing up montage #BUHBUM BUM DUM DUM BUH

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sunnypogue · 4 years

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jj visits you at school (headcanon)

ok so i took a very innocent prompt and turned it into my old ass reliving my college days (this is an ode to college football + texas food)

(warnings: nsfw-ish, drinking, cursing)

after high school, you decided you needed to get the hell out of north carolina

didn’t even consider duke/chapel hill/state

applied to schools all over the country before deciding on university of texas

(jj was sad because you were leaving - and he wasn’t - but it was closer than cal, which was your next choice)

as soon as you settled in, you bought him a flight out for a home football game

basically a religious experience in texas

you swooped him late thursday night from austin-bergstrom, borrowing your big’s boyfriend’s chevy silverado

yes you had joined a sorority. yes you lowkey loved it.

you could barely see over the wheel, and were basically falling asleep because you had to book it to the airport right after your 2 hour bio lab

but you got so excited when you saw jj - he was all amped up from flying for the first time

he waved you down, holding his beat up duffle bag on the sidewalk outside of arrivals

laughed at you as you tried navigating the truck (it was HARD okay, your big’s boyfriend owned a ranch - it wasn’t meant for the streets of austin), swung open the door as you rolled to a stop, slid into the passenger seat, gave you a “howdy, ma’am” before leaning over the gear shift & tongue fucking you.

woke ya right up!

you welcomed him to texas the traditional way - honey butter chicken biscuit from whataburger

he inhaled it - “god, what the FUCK is this?”

y’all spooned in your twin xl bed - you elbowed him in the chest, twice.

took him to your gen ed history class the next morning - y’all hid in the back and sent each other dirty texts the whole time (nothing new there)

gave him the full tour of campus after & rewarded him with torchy’s after - peg leg margarita + trailer trash tacos.

he had never had queso before - blew his fuckin’ mind

“why is the food here so GOOD?”

took him to your sorority mixer that night - 70’s themed, so y’all blew it out of the water with some very authentic ABBA costumes that you coordinated with your best friend + her boyfriend

jj let you round brush dry his hair & wore the classic all white outfit to match yours

y’all fucked in the costumes later that night - you couldn’t stop laughing, and he wouldn’t stop humming “super trouper”

woke up at the ass crack of day for game day - 2pm kick off meant 10 am tailgate

jj let you dress him (you were worried about getting him into the tailgate - you weren’t really in the mood for him to have to answer the “who do you know here?” question a thousand times)

of course, you had the frat boy game day uniform all ready for him - black ut polo, wranglers & cowboy boots.

he drew the line at the cowboy hat, opting for a backwards baseball cap

he wasn’t excited about the boots, until you handed him a flask & told him that was the only way he was sneaking alc into the game

jj immediately filled it with jack, before slipping into the side of his boot - “alright alright alright”

shockingly, getting him into the frat tailgate was no problem (you wisely chose to bring him to your big’s boyfriend’s frat - while he wasn’t pledge master, he had a lot of pull, and didn’t bat an eye as you brought your semi-incognito boyfriend into the house)

and of course, he made friends with literally EVERYONE he met

shotgunning beers with your best friends and their boyfriends

betting people to ride the mechanical bull in the middle of the backyard (because what the fuck)

sharing his boot flask (“yeah, my girlfriend got it for me - yeah, she’s pretty great.”)

of course, you taught him how to “hook ‘em”

and suckered him into a picture

literally y’all only got one good one, you on his back, throwing the horns, him grinning at you as he half-assed the horns

he was flipping off the camera in every other photo

when y’all got to the stadium, he lost his shit

easily the biggest place (with the most people) he had EVER been in

completely took it in stride - learning all the chants, (“we’re gonna beat the hell outta you!” was his favorite) cheering as pledges were forced to chug whatever crazy shit the older frat members smuggled into the stadium between the student section bleachers, going absolutely apeshit when texas would score

jj didn’t know football could be fun - football was synonymous with his dad betting big and losing hard, which meant he got the brunt of...that

after the game (horns win!), y’all headed back to your dorm for a shower & power nap before hitting sixth street later that night

you changed your outfit three times and your panties once, because SOMEONE thought it would be funny to finger you while you tried to do your hair

you weren’t really complaining, tbh

y’all walked to a pregame, jj wearing his boots & sipping from his flask, arm slung around you

same group y’all tailgated with earlier, so jj was like an old friend at this point

(he even got the invite to the fraternity mardi gras trip in the spring - he asked if you were going to be flashing for beads - you smacked him on the arm)

wrangled him into an intense game of rage cage (you won - he bragged about you for the rest of the night)

laughed as you and your friends sat in the uber to the bars, memorizing your fake id’s

jj had the same one from high school - he had a whole life story for his id at this point

let you drag him to a country bar - he kept your drink full as you & your sorority sisters drunkenly line danced to “any man of mine” and “cottonhead road”

you even got him to two step

he ended up half-carrying your wasted ass home - you passed the fuck out the second you were back in your dorm

being the good boyfriend he is, he helped you take your makeup off and change into your pj’s

you woke up in his cutoff coors shirt, and nothing else - for revenge, you woke him up with a blow job - obviously.

you both had mind numbing hangovers (he refused to admit it, but he was feelin’ a lil rough after a game day + night out on sixth), so you dragged him to brunch - hair of the dog, baby.

knocked a couple mimosas back & made plans to lay out by the pool - nothing like getting absolutely fried by the sun to revive your hungover ass

as you were falling asleep on the lounger by the school’s outdoor pool, you heard him mumble something

“you know where austin community college is, baby?”

you nodded, not following the conversation whatsoever, playing around with his baseball cap (you forgot your sunglasses, he offered it up to protect your eyes from the sun)

“lookin’ at it” he shrugged, holding his phone up, home page for ACC on his browser

you sat up a lil bit. “you’d consider leaving the outer banks?”

he didn’t respond right away - you poked him with your foot a couple times

“I don’t think I’d ever leave the outer banks for good - but for a few years? maybe.” “for me?”

he poked you back “nah, i’m coming for torchy’s + whataburger. you’re just an added bonus”

you nailed him with the hat, square in the face. “shut up.”

he laughed - sat up, swung your legs onto his lap, “i’m coming for you. you shut up.”

#jj maybank #headcanon #outer banks #outer banks fic #outer banks imagine #jj maybank fic #jj maybank x reader #rudy pankow #she writes #obx #jj obx #jj maybank imagine

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katehuntington · 4 years

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Title: Black Dog - part two Word count: ±2250 words Episode summary: When Sam gets an anonymous phone call with information about his father, Dean receives a text message with coordinates to different location. The brothers clash and split up, one following orders, the other trusting his instincts. Meanwhile, in the wilderness of Cascade Range, Washington State, Zoë loses grip on a personal case and is forced to confront her demons. Without back up, this might very well turn out to be her final hunt. Part two summary: After successfully wrapping up a werewolf case in Waco, Texas, the boys are on their way again. However, an unexpected phone call might just result in a change of course. Episode warnings: Dark! NSFW, 18+ only! Angst, gore, violence, character death. Description of blood, injury and medical procedures. Supernatural creatures/entities, mentions of demon possession. Swearing, smoking, weaponry. Descriptions of torture and murder. Illegal/criminal practices. Mentions of nightmares and flashbacks. Descriptions of suicidal thoughts and tendencies, depression, panic attacks, hallucinations. Author’s note: Beta’d by @winchest09 & @deanwanddamons. Thanks, girls!

Supernatural: The Sullivan Series Masterlist

S1E03 “Black Dog” Masterlist

Waco, Texas November 30th, 2005 - Present Day

“Get your motor runnin’. Head out on the highway! Lookin’ for adventure, and whatever comes our way.”

It’s early morning in sunny Texas as the black Chevrolet Impala shoots down Interstate 35, just outside the city of Waco. The temperatures are still cool at this hour, but the orange sun that’s rising in the East will change that within hours. It is exceptionally warm for this time of the year, even for this far south.

Dean has his window rolled down and joins Steppenwolf’s lead singer John Kay on the vocals. The hunt was pretty straight forward; after a day of traveling and three more to track the creature, the hunters were able to make the kill. He feels ten times better than he did five days ago, the night he got pulled out of the water without a pulse. But the rest, time and a high dose of antibiotics did him good. Deep breaths aren’t much trouble anymore and the cough is as good as gone. Even the sprint to tackle the werewolf didn’t set his lungs on fire. He’s off pain medication, slept horizontally for the first time in days, and is behind the wheel of his Baby; Dean feels good as new. His way of celebrating is by belting out every word of the legendary rock classic Born To Be Wild.

“Yeah, Darlin’, go and make it happen. Take the world in a love embrace. Fire all of your guns at once and explode into space.”

His brother, who is huddled in the corner of the door and the front seat, opens his eyes slightly and glares at his sibling through the drowsiness. He’s not sure what’s more surprising, Dean’s unbelievably good mood or the fact that he’s able to hit the notes.

“Like a true nature’s child, we were born, born to be wild. We can climb so high, I never wanna die!” Dean sings as he drums on the wheel.

“Dude, I’m trying to sleep,” Sam complains. “Turn that shit down, will you?” Dean looks aside, as if his brother just said something vile. Did he just call Steppenwolf shit? The oldest of the two shakes his head; I tried so hard to raise him right.

Instead of honoring Sam’s request, Dean lets go of the steering wheel and plays the solo on his air guitar. Startled, the passenger reaches to take control in order to keep the car steady, after which he eyes his brother. As he does, Dean turns the volume button clockwise and sings along again. “Born to be wi-i-ild!” he cries out. “Seriously?” The youngest of the two shoots a look of annoyance at the driver. “Ah, c’mon, Sammy. Why can’t a guy have a little fun?” Dean replies. “It’s Sam,” his brother reminds him. “And for one, because I barely slept last night, and secondly, because it’s seven thirty in the morning.” “So? You’re usually the one who’s all chirpy at the crack of dawn. This way we have the whole day ahead, y’know. Make some use of it,” Dean quips.

Sam lifts one eyebrow and observes the driver for a few seconds. Is this truly coming from his brother, who is anything but a morning person? Bullshit, he thinks to himself. “That’s the best you could come up with?” he confronts. Right at that moment, AC/DC’s Stiff Upper Lip starts playing on the radio channel and Dean can’t help but to shout out when he recognizes the introduction. “Man, I love this song!” Sam shakes his head. All that his brother is doing is avoiding the topic of conversation. “And Erin didn’t mind you leaving before the alarm?”

Dean looks aside, thinking of the gorgeous brunette he picked up at a bar last night during their celebratory drink. “Not sure, she was still asleep when I left,” he admits. The younger Winchester scoffs. “That’s just mean.” “It ain’t my style to hang around too long, you know that,” Dean reminds his brother, defending his actions. “Why the hell are you in such a hurry? We don’t have a lead on Dad, we don’t have a lead on any case at all. Yet you dragged me out of the motel room at 6 AM to hit the road,” Sam questions.

His brother shrugs and fails to answer the question. Instead, he mouths the lyrics of the song while cheerily banging his head to the beat. “Dean!” Sam shouts, trying to get his brother to focus. “What?!” Dean bounces back, getting somewhat annoyed with his brother’s persistence. “I just wanna get to Hillsboro to pick up that lock so I can finally fix the trunk, that’s all.”

The passenger rolls his eyes at the lame excuse. “That’s not the reason, Dean. And you know it.” Dean lays his hand on top of the wheel and shakes his head. “You’re seeing things that ain’t there, know that?” “Funny, though, apparently you know that I’m talking about Zoë, without me even mentioning her,” the youngest returns with an attitude. “And do you honestly think I didn’t notice that you’re driving north?” “We’re in Texas, Sam. I can’t exactly go South without crossing any fucking borders,” Dean argues. “Not to mention that ‘north’ is a lot of square miles in this country. How the hell would we possibly be able to find her?” “I don’t know, man…” Sam stares up the road ahead, but then looks aside. “But you did think of it then.”

Dean sighs, realizing his slip of the tongue. Okay, so maybe he did, but he isn’t going to admit that. “You are the one who keeps calling her every day. You’re full on stalking her, no wonder she doesn’t pick up.” “I hope to God that’s the reason,” Sam responds, worried. “She’s probably just neck deep in a case,” the driver brings to mind. “Zoë’s a good hunter, she knows her shit. Why would you think she’s in trouble?” “I don’t know, just the way she took off. Like she wasn’t expecting to see us again,” Sam recalls. “You mean that she was nice?” the oldest rephrases. “Look, if she’s in trouble or not, we’d be searching for a needle in a very big haystack. For now -” He turns on his blinker and exits the highway, “- I’m gonna patch up my Baby.”

Ten minutes later, they pull over on 526 West Elm Street in Hillsboro. It’s a quiet lane on the outer side of the city, on which a little auto shop called Ronny’s Garage and Wrecker Services is situated. It’s not a big place, just a shed, from which the Stars and Stripes flag flutter playfully. A big Chevrolet truck is parked in front of the lawn, and several wreckages fill the large yard behind the house. On the other side of the sober home next to the shed, there’s a small gas station.

Dean cuts the engine and gets out of the car. A largely built man with big sideburns and a slight limp in his walk shows up from under the garage door and moves into the sun. Whipping his hands clean with a dirty cloth, he smiles at the sight of the ‘67 Impala. The oldest of the two Winchester brothers walks up the driveway. “Ronny Davis!” Dean grins as he approaches him. “Man, it’s good to see ya.” “Long time, no see, Winchester,” the big man says, embracing the hunter.

Dean pats him on the back and restores the space between them. It has been a while. Last time he saw the brawny guy was at a shady diner in Tampa, where he and John helped Ron out on a Djinn case. It must have been four years ago, at least. Sam just left for college around that time. “How’s your old man?” he wonders. “He’s alright,” Dean says, keeping up appearances. “Workin’ another case.”

It’s not a lie. Well, technically it’s not. He will leave out the part where his father is missing, though. Not telling the truth to the old friend is not something he’s comfortable with, but he will do anything to make sure his father’s work isn’t jeopardized. Sam was eager to reach out to other hunters in order to find him and although Dean wants to track him down just as well, he prefers to keep this in the family, letting sleeping dogs lie. Who knows who, or what, might be listening in. They will find Dad, when he wants to be found.

The two men enter the garage, where a 62’ Lincoln Continental lays on the operating table with a bared engine bay. While Dean nods at the car with appreciating eyes, Ronny turns around to observe the youngest Winchester for a moment, who gets out of the car. “I see Sam is back in action.” “Yeah, dragged his ass back into the game,” Dean replies with a trace of regret in his voice. “He’s an excellent hunter. We can use a few good men like him,” Ronny says. “Especially now that one of the very best was sent on early retirement.” Dean chuckles at his comment and glances down. “How are you, by the way?” Ron pulls up the pant leg of his overhaul, revealing the bionic prosthetic. “It doesn’t even hurt a bit,” he jokes. “Ruguru took it right off, knee and all.” “I’m sorry, man,” Dean sighs, his sympathetic eyes meeting Ronny’s. “It’s quite alright, actually,” he assures, smiling at the ground. “I mean, I still have holy water on my nightstand and a sixgun by the door, but instead of killing monsters I fix cars now. Life could be worse.”

Dean can’t help but to agree on that. A small prick of jealousy pierces his heart, because deep down, he wouldn’t mind living the ordinary life. Sure, he has embraced hunting, or at least acts like he has. He finds fulfillment in the job, saving people who are in need and ridding the world of evil, but it comes with great sacrifice. Who knows, maybe when they finally find the son of a bitch that killed his mother, he can lay down his weapons. Some day.

The former hunter has walked to his workbench on which a dissected transmission box lays bare. “So, what brings you here?” “Passing through, just wrapped up a case in Waco,” Dean tells him. “Some scumbag tried to break into the trunk, though. The lock is busted, couldn’t fix it. And since you have six and a half a Chevy in your backyard, I figured you’d be the guy who could help me out.” “I actually dismantled a 69’ Caprice last week, same lock as the ‘67.” He moves a few boxes around, snuffling through the thousands of parts. In this organized chaos Ron is able to find what he’s looking for and pulls the lock plus keys from a drawer. “Let’s get to work,” Dean suggests, contented.

As the mechanics take a look at the Impala, Sam wanders off. Not going anywhere in particular, the youngest Winchester strolls down the crooked sidewalk, taking in his surroundings. None of the lawns in the neighborhood are taken care of, no one made the effort to water the grass. The houses seem neglected, paint is coming off the wooden frames and weeds growing through the tiles.

With a sigh he takes out his phone. Scrolling through the list of last outgoing calls, Zoë shows on the display over and over again. Dean’s right; he is stalking her. Despite that thought, he presses the green button and puts his new Blackberry against his ear, since the last one perished in the lake in Paragould.

“This is the voicemail of Zoë Sullivan. You can leave a message after the--”

Annoyed, Sam hangs up and walks on. As he enters the small shop by the gas station, a bell rings. A middle aged woman behind the counter looks up and greets him politely. He gives her a nod and takes a few candy bars from the selves, since there is no healthy alternative in stock to choose from. So much for breakfast, but at least this will save them from starvation. “That will be $ 3,60, sir,” the lady informs while she puts the bars in a plastic bag. He passes her a five dollar bill and takes the bag and his change. As she wishes him a nice day, he leaves. The sun almost blinds him, still hanging low, but shining brightly already. Sam narrows his eyes and starts to make his way back to the garage, when his phone rings. A bit startled, he hastily takes out his phone, hoping it’s Zoë, but the caller ID isn’t identified on the display. While wondering who it could be, he answers. “This is Sam.” “Sam Winchester?”

A bit stunned, the young hunter looks back at his display to make sure the woman on the other end of the line isn’t Zoë. The voice coming through is different, softer, with a slightly dissimilar accent. Sam digs deep down his memory, but he doesn’t recognize the person on the phone. “Who is this?” he asks, still cautious. “I have some information for you.” Whoever she is, she got his attention. Sam tries to not sound too curious as he responds. “What kind of information?” A short silence follows before the girl answers, but when she does, her words bring his heart and mind to a full stop.

“I know where your father is.”

There you have it, the first chapter of the new episode “Black Dog”. I hope I got your attention! Thank you so much for reading. I appreciate every single one of you, but if you do want to give me some extra love, you are free to reblog my work or buy me coffee (Link in bio at the top of the page)

Read part three here

#Dean Winchester fanfiction #Sam Winchester fanfiction #Dean x OFC #Sam x OFC #Supernatural OFC series #Supernatural series #Dean Winchester series #Sam Winchester series #Dean Winchester #Sam Winchester #Zoë Sullivan #Supernatural fanfiction #SPN #SPN fanfiction #Supernatural: the Sullivan Series #STSS #1x03 black dog #Kate Huntington

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banesbottombitch · 6 years

Text

When You’re Strange

A Patrick Hockstetter / Reader fic

Original Link

Warnings: Violence, swearing up the ass, Tozier!Reader beating ass, Richie and Tozier!Reader’s Trashmouths. She/Her Reader.

Description: As a military brat, you’ve learned to pick up everything and run at a moments notice. Ending up back in Derry for your senior year and moving in with your aunt and uncle, you’ve come to realize that with Patrick Hockstetter’s sights on you there is no room for running.

Word Count: +4,600

Other Chapters: Part 1, Part 2

Part 3: Rebel Yell

A/N: I whipped this up pretty fast, but I’m going to take short break from WYS for work. I’ll be back in a few days though, worry not. Rebel Yell is by Billy Idol, check out the song you nerds.

“You gotta death wish, don’t you?” Richie pushed his glasses up the length of his nose, squinting at you while you worked at the straps of the blue tarp that shielded your trunk.

“What’s that thing you guys yell at Richie when he’s being a pest?” You asked Eddie, not bothering to look at either boys while you climbed into the back of your truck, tossing the tarp aside and hauling Richie’s bike to the tailgate.

“Beep Beep Richie.” They spoke in unison, your cousin rolling big brown eyes and bouncing on his heels.

“I’m just saying, threatening the Bowers Gang? Really? We all saw you doing it from the cafeteria. You’re here for like, I dunno, less than 36 hours and you’re already picking a fight with those shit lickers?” Richie continued, taking the handle bars of his bike and helping you lower it to the parking lot asphalt.

“He’s got a point.” Eddie chimed in, much to your chagrin. The freshmen shared a look between them as you hopped out the back of your truck before slamming the tailgate closed with a satisfying clap.

You leaned against it, stuffing your hands into the pockets of your windbreaker and giving them an even look.

“Listen, I’m just…” You trailed off, sighing. “I dunno, trying to get them to back off? They seem to genuinely scare you guys. I thought it would help to let them know that I’d take a bat to their heads, y’know?”

Richie threw a long leg over his bike, Eddie climbing to sit on the edge of the seat that the taller boy left him. “Just don’t get yourself killed, we can take care of ourselves.”

Wearily your cousin kicked off, pedaling slowly to round your vehicle. “I’ll see you later.”

“By Eddie!” You raised a hand still stuck in your pocket, Eddie shifting to wrap his arms around Richie’s thin torso and waving back at you. “Make him come home by eight!”

“Nine!” Richie challenged, working his legs to pedal faster and out of ear shot before you could argue. In the distance, you saw him encircle Bill and Stan as they kicked off from their bikes, Beverly riding on Mike’s handal bars and Ben chasing after the other six as he quickened his pace to follow the group out the parking lot.

You clicked your tongue, dragging your keys from your pocket and slipping into your truck. Your backpack sat in the passenger side the two boys had occupied that morning, folded in on itself and limp. You leaned over after stuffing the keys in the ignition to let the car idle, shoveling out the contents in search of the mixtape that had been gifted to you. It took a moment, but you found it, hidden under the gym uniform given to you during your fourth period P.E. class. You had put it in your pocket earlier, but changing had forced you to toss it in your backpack for safe keeping.

Again, you flipped the tape to read over the songs. Beverly had chosen the first song, a Psychedelic Furs classic, ‘Pretty In Pink’. Mike had chosen The Police’s hit ‘Message In A Bottle’, Bill had gone surprisingly wayward and picked a Depeche Mode song ‘Policy Of Truth’. Someone was going through an edgy phase, you mused, impressed nonetheless. Ben as a wildcard with his Billy Idol choice, and you smiled a little, finding that his pick of ‘Rebel Yell’ was a perfect fit for you at least.

Stan had thrown in a surprise guest, Pat Benatar’s ‘Heartbreaker’. You had always wondered what kind of taste the Uris boy had, but honestly, Pat wasn’t too much of a surprise. He seemed like the type to enjoy dramatic and passionate lyrics like those you’d find in Pat Benatar’s music. Eddie had picked a Cyndi Lauper song that held a special place in your heart, ‘The Goonies r’ Good Enough’. You still had vivid memories of watching The Goonies with the four original nerds when it came out in theaters during a small gap in summer when you had flown up to Derry for a visit. It had been easy enough to convince them to dress up with you and go adventuring with them by the barrens, and easier still to let Richie and Bill lead the way for the five of you to build a crappy little fort in the woods.

Richie’s contribution was what really made you beam though, his carefully chosen song for you was a personal favorite of yours. ‘How Soon Is Now’ by The Smiths.

You carefully switched out the tapes, retiring the other one to your wrinkled and torn up cardboard cassette box that rested in the beaten up floorboards of your cab and taking off as the slow rhythmic beats of The Psychedelic Furs filled your truck.

You carefully searched the parking lot for any sign of a blue Trans-Am, surprised not to see any edivdence of it. You shrugged off a rather nervous feeling in your gut at the observation, figuring the Bowers Gang must have snuck out of school after lunch. They didn’t exactly seem like the type to conform to the social norm and actually attend a full day of school anyhow.

The greenery in Derry was a nice change from the ever browning palm trees and sandy tropical gardens of Galveston. The skies were just as blessedly blue, streaks of cream casting cool shadows from the clouds that covered Derry on that October afternoon. It didn't reek like the ocean in the small town, it wasn’t clogged with smog, and the muggy heat of texas had thankfully not followed you north. You felt close to your element in Derry, to your great surprise. It was the right kind of environment for you, but you would admit to already missing the bustling populace of Houston or even the smaller city of Sugarland.

Rolling down your window, you left Derry High behind you, creeping down Pasture Road before turning down the Kissing Bridge to cut over to Canal Street and head back home. You neared the overpass that stood above the canal ways, but slowed with a curse when you spotted that goddamn blue Trans-Am.

It sat empty, but what worried you the most was the pile of bikes left forgotten by the roadside, completely deserted.

“Fuck.” You swore, pulling off to the side and snatching your keys out, kicking the driver side door open in a rush. You hesitated a moment in silent deliberation, eyeing a tool beneath the cassette box.

A sudden hoarse yelp of pain, one you listened to with horror when you recognized it as Richie’s, decided your actions for you. You shoved the cassette box aside, grabbing the heavy tire iron from the floorboards and jumping out the car. You flew through the underbrush by the bridge, hearing what sounded like grunts and swears- namely from the mouth of your Trashmouth cousin.

You stumbled out of the woods, finding a break in the path and crashed out in a flurry of crunched up leaves and panic, tire iron raised.

From the looks of it, you had ended up by the canalside, the rocks littered with the fighting forms of your cousins friends and four enraged, hostile and very unlucky seniors.

Eddie was out cold, face pressed into the ground, a little scratched up but seeming mostly unharmed. Stan was attempting to over power Belch’s hulking mass, who had Bill’s collar in a death grip and was smacking him around like a rag doll. Mike was taking on Patrick and Vic alongside Beverly and Ben, the latter of who was flushed in the face and positively livid. Mike’s torn lip and Beverly’s scraped knees were nothing compared to the absolute wreck that was Richie Tozier’s face however.

Glasses? Shattered. Lip? Busted, bruised and split. Richie’s nose bent at an awkward and certainly painful angle, and there was a long cut alongside his eye, as if someone had carved him with a knife or a piece of glass. That didn't stop his mouth from flapping though, and even with his cracked voice and split lip he shot zingers like the Tozier he was.

“You fucking-” He spat at Henry Bowers, who wrestled with the smaller boy and dug his back into the tough and jagged rocks of the canalside. “Bruce Springsteen lookin’ mother fucker!”

“Aw? Mad, Flamer?” Henry taunted, gritting his teeth and driving Richie harder against the stones. “Upset we knocked out your little faggy boyfriend?”

He cocked his fist back, knuckles bruised and red with Richie’s blood.

You launched into action, roaring with a feral rage and lurching off from the path, bringing your weapon down on Henry’s side with as much weight behind it as you could muster.

“FUCK-” Bowers howled, clutching his side and pushing himself off Richie, who gurgled some kind of greeting that you didn't hear, your vision going red as you knocked Henry further back with the bottom of your docs.

You raised the tire iron, eyes burning and teeth bared, bringing it down where the mullet haired boy would have been if he hadn’t scrambled back.

From your side vision you spotted Belch, who was coming at you with arms out, ready to take you down. Side stepping him, you knocked against his back using the tire iron with a positively bruising force, kicking him for good measure as well and returning your focus to Henry.

“What did I say?!” You screamed, throwing the weapon down again and again, growing more and more irritated as you missed him.

“You’re fucking crazy! Bitch!” Henry spat, pushing up from the ground and scattering pebbles in his wake.

“What did I say?!” You repeated with even more venom, Vic and Patrick hovering beside Belch, who watched your dance with Henry wearily.

“You’re dead!” Henry ignored your prompt, pointing at you and digging into his pocket, whipping out a knife.

You gripped the tire iron tighter, eyes flashing and lip curling. “I like my odds, Bowers. Do you like yours?”

Blue eyes flickered to his wounded friend and the other two who seemed content to keep out of this particular fight. “Get her, Patrick.”

“With pleasure.”

You whirled around, slashing at the lanky boy who was a safe distance from you, a wild look in your eyes. “You think I’m above kicking your ass too, Hockstetter? Don’t fuckin’ try me!”

Patrick edged around Belch, watching you carefully. “Why don’t you settle down, Princess?”

Adrenaline pounded through you, your blood a rush in your ears. You let out a growl, pointing at him with the weapon. “You wanna dance? Let’s dance, Hockstetter.”

“[First Name]!” Stan shrieked, the crunch of pebbles shifting with weight alerting you back to the threat that loomed behind.

Spinning with the weapon ready, you landed a solid blow on Henry’s shoulder, but he had used your distraction to his advantage and you felt the white hot hiss of a cut rake down your right arm. The knife sliced through your windbreaker easily, slicing your forearm good, and scarlet poured freely as Henry stumbled back, looking pained.

Panic set in now, Patrick’s presence hovering along the sidelines, a snarl at his lips and Henry raised his knife in silent challenge once more.

“One more good whack, Bowers, and you’re in the hospital.” You sneered, rolling the weapon to your other hand, knowing you’d be sloppy with the change, but still effective. You spared Patrick a glare. “And I’ll aim for your head, Hockstetter.”

“Sounds tough coming from you, Tozier.” He taunted, a bottle of hairspray shaking in his hand as he fixed on you with an eerie gaze. “I’ll melt that Trashmouth right off your pretty little face.”

You saw the kids scramble to Richie and Eddie, the Bowers Gang focused on you entirely. Belch attempted to rise, but stumbled back down in a kneel, swearing. You had gotten him good, it seemed. Vic didn't want to press the matter at hand, attempting to help his friend stand instead of facing you.

You winced, bending your wounded arm and taking your keys out of your pocket, hurling them at Beverly, who caught them with an uncertain look.

“Get in the truck, have it running. Id im not out in five, drive.” You ordered tensely, eyes flickering between Patrick and Henry, the latter of whom seemed to be having trouble standing, his breathing uneven and restless.

The freshmen swarmed the two broken boys, your cousin fighting their helping hands and calling after you. You ignored him, waiting for either of the bullies that crowded you to make their move.

“What now, boys?” You carefully stepped to the side, eyeing them as you edged back to the path that would lead you to the truck, Richie’s friends racing away with him and Eddie in tow.

A spout of fire that curled and preened shot out at you, Patrick closing in all too fast in response. You swore, not expecting him to have that much range, Henry throwing himself at you when you faced Patrick.

The two of you went flying, the cut burning as Henry shoved you to the bank, the action knocking the air out of your lungs as your back met the uneven and sharp rocks. You struggled, throwing the tire iron up to block his jabs and slashes of the knife, the edge coming dangerously close to your eyes.

“Look at you now, Trashmouth!” Patrick hooted, running up to come beside Henry.

You writhed under Henry, finding an opening and, with a valiant cry, jerked the bottom of the tire iron to strike Henry’s temple. He gave a cry of pain and ripped himself off you, roaring as he clutched his now bleeding head. You kicked yourself up, just barely breaking from Patrick’s grasp as he hurled himself after you.

Henry was down for the count, but Patrick was more than happy to pursue you through the winding and twisting limbs of the underbrush. The path was caked with wet leaves, unsteady earth and littered with specks of blood from Richie and probably Bill, but you came out the other side and skidded across the Kissing Bridge, chest heaving, victorious despite the challenge of the terrain.

Patrick was right on your tail, always inches from catching you, his eyes lit up with a gleam that horrified you to the core. He was enjoying himself as he increased his speed while you sprinted to the running truck.

“TAKE OFF THE BREAK, TAKE OFF THE BREAK!” You screamed, hearing the chaotic laughter behind you.

The gang was in the back, all shouting after you to hurry, Bill and Richie leaning heavily on each other in the trunk of the car, looking like hell had come after them and spat them back out. Beverly was at the wheel, screaming in time with the others as you threw yourself into the open trunk bed, Mike shoveling you far inside as Beverly shot off like a bullet. You all lurched forward from the force, the bikes that had been stuffed in the back rattling beside each other, and you gave a cry when you felt Patrick’s hand just barely graze your boot, your head turning as you watched him slow to a trot, giving up in his chase.

“We’ll get you later, Tozier!” He called after you, bending to catch his breath, eyes boring into you as Beverly whipped the truck down the street and carried off far from the bridge.

The truck was driven far away, weaving behind Derry through back roads that even you were unaware of. Mike carefully climbed through the open back window, directing Beverly with a calm voice, the only one of you who had the sense to keep his emotions in check.

The wind whipped at your hair, the cool air welcomed to calm the heat in your veins, to tame the fire in your belly. You were going to fucking murder Bowers, if it was the last thing you did. Carefully, you shuffled past the bikes to Richie and Bill, taking care to raise Richie’s head to inspect the damage.

“What happened?” You asked, your question falling on Stan or Ben to answer.

You glanced over your shoulder, Stan looking distraught as he watched Bill roll his head, his left eye swelling shut and jaw reddening with bruises. Bill attempted to speak, his speech slurred.

“B-b-buh-bowers,” He finally got out, heaving a sigh. “Ben. Tell h-her.”

Ben shifted, his face dirty and flushed, but seeming mostly unharmed. “Bowers caught us at Kissing Bridge. He was pissed you had tried to order him around, so he started picking on Richie… And, well, you know Eddie,” the boy nodded at Eddie, whose head rested on Stan’s lap, his breathing relaxed. There was a knot forming on his forehead, but at the very least he seemed safe enough. “He got angry that Henry was messing with Richie and he mouthed off to him, which made Henry angry, which made Richie cuss him out and, well.”

Ben sighed. “They chased us to the canal, Patrick and Henry shoved Eddie down and he was out like a light. Richie tackled Henry, Bill went for Belch when he tried to kick Richie off Henry and Patrick got on Mike. Bev and I ran to Mike after Stan ran to Bill and Vic knocked me down. You showed up after i got up and Henry started wailing on Richie.” “Fuckin… Idiot.” Richie spat, breathing heavily as Beverly finally slowed the car, pulling the parking brake as she came up beside a pasture and climbing out, panic fresh on her features.

“You’re the idiot!” She yelled, a wetness in her eyes as she crawled into the truck bed, reaching for Eddie and cradling his face in her hands. “Eddie, Eds?”

The boy gave a sharp inhale, hazel eyes fluttering open as he flinched awake. “What-” He sat up, swaying only slightly as Mike took the wheel. “What the fuck happened, OH MY GOD, RICHIE!”

“Where do we go?” He asked, looking over his shoulder, worried gaze resting on Richie and Bill.

“R-r-ree-rich- FUCK,” Bill cursed, angirly stirring in his spot. “Richie’s!”

His eyes hardened, furious with either himself or his predicament, you weren't sure. Mike looked to you for an okay and you wearily crawled from the back to the inside of the cab, letting out a soft moan of pain as you overworked your wounded arm.

Eddie took your spot beside Richie, eyes pricking with tears as he practically hyperventilated. He was speaking a mile a minute and you didn't take the time to decipher it as Mike began to drive forward, heading down the road to make it back to town.

“Eds.” Richie croaked between heavy breaths, Eddie continuing on some kind of rant about broken noses. “Eds.”

Beverly gingerly looked over Bill’s face, Stan hovering at her side and looking forlorn as they bounced in the back from the dents and potholes of the roads. Gravel kicked underneath the truck, crunching loudly as Mike led everyone past farmlands.

“Eds.” Richie said firmly, reaching out and catching a panicky hand of Eddie’s, folding his fingers together with the smaller boys and arching in to a sore stretch. “Stop, i’m begging you.”

Finally, Eddie silenced himself. A loud sniffle could be heard as he shuffled closer to Richie, forcing your cousin to lean himself on him. “You’re a fucking idiot. Idiot.”

“Nice.” Richie mused with a broken laugh, coughing and groaning. “This is all your fault, [First Name]. Just sayin’. If I die, make sure they bury me in a coffin without nails so I can pass over to the promise land and let god know how much of an ass you are.”

“Considering you want ‘Highway To hell’ played after your hespied, you turd, I don’t think you’re making it to the otherside.” You snapped, sliding off your jacket and eyeing the nasty cut, courtesy of Henry Bowers. “I was just trying to help.”

Richie scoffed, but you decided against fighting further, it did you no favors. Maybe Richie was right. You had been too aggressive, way too damn fast. The Bowers Gang meant business, it appeared. Something told you that if Patrick had caught you at the bridge that you’d have been dead meat, no holds barred. Just threatening those boys had landed you in a heap of shit, and, like Richie had pointed out, you had barely been in town for two days.

Mike watched you from the corner of his eye, and you sighed heavily, closing the window to the back and scrunching up your face in distaste.

“It’s my fault, isn’t it?” You asked him, already gathering that he was the wisest of the group, the most grown up and least opinionated.

Mike shrugged his shoulders. “You Toziers are good at two things; talking smack and causing problems… But at least you were trying to do right by us.” He smiled a little, rubbing at this split lip. “Even if it did get us a little roughed up. It shows you care.”

“Richies beat bad, Bill’s going to be swollen up and colored purple.” You said regretfully. “Eddie was out for longer than five minutes, and you’ve got a busted lip. I did a swell job trying to do right by you guys, huh?”

“You’re hurt too.” Mike pointed out softly, turning down a rural road. “Bowers cut you up pretty bad.”

“I’m fine. I’m more worried about you guys.” You said honestly, peeking back at the others in the back, all of whom who were huddled together in a tight circle. The breeze ruffled curls and upset need styles, but at least all of them had tired smiles. They looked valiant, proud to have escaped with a few scrapes and their lives.

“Toziers.” Mike murmured, shaking his head and giving a defeated sigh. “You need to watch it around Bowers, I’m just warning you.”

“I can handle myself.” You defended lightly.

“I saw. But if Patrick had jumped in, I’m sure you wouldn’t currently be in this car.” He said, attempting to resonate with you. “You took that tire iron to Henry Bowers pretty hard core, sure, but he isn't the only member of the gang, [First Name].”

You clicked your tongue. “I’d take him on again if I could, Mike.”

“I know.” He agreed, eyes dancing with amusement.

You were quiet for a while, letting the scenery pass by before suddenly you sat up, blinking in surprise.

“WAIT? CAN YOU EVEN LEGALLY DRIVE?”

Underneath the blood that caked Richie’s face was a simple broken nose and torn lip, nothing too major despite what it had seemed earlier. You and Richie was miraculously able to convince your aunt that he had simply fallen off his bike and roughed himself up slamming into a pole. Your cousin had an endless supply of glasses, so it was an easy fix as far as the two of you were concerned, and Bill’s eye lessened in its swelling after he applied an ice pack and Eddie tended to his cuts. Mike said his lip was nothing to worry about and Ben put countless band aids on Beverly’s knees, the tenderness evident behind his sweet smile and Beverly’s warm gaze. Eddie’s bump had receded considerably and was barely there now, but he had kept ice on it for a while just to be safe.

It took the combined power of Stan, Bill, Mike and Beverly to hold you still so Eddie could patch up your arm. You thrashed around, having preferred to just rinse it off and tape the wound up in a classic Tozier fashion, but Kaspbrak nagged the shit out of you before he ordered the attack on you to be made.

Richie was too doped up on the pain medication that Eddie stole from his cabinets to bring to your house for his emergency aid, so the bespectacled nerd could only let out a few slurred “Suck the wound ”’s before he seemingly passed out on the couch in the Tozier home’s basement.

“Hold her still, come on.” Eddie snapped, a cotton ball of peroxide in between his careful fingers as he applied the antiseptic to your gash.

“Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow-” You whined, wiggling around despite the combined weight that kept you seated in the office chair stolen from your uncles computer room.

“Is she going to need stitches?” Stan questioned, much to your added distress.

“No, she isn't. It's just a flesh wound.” Eddie assured everyone, Ben letting out a thankful sigh in place of yourself.

Richie gave a sleepy chuckle, rolling on the couch. “Flesh wound…” He was promptly ignored.

“Calm down, you’re alright.” Beverly shushed, smiling down at you. You flinched as Eddie patted your cut dry, pressing gauze against it before begining to wrap your arm tightly with bandages.

“Thanks mom.” You snarked, wincing at the pressure applied, but calming down nonetheless.

Eddie stepped back, sighing. “Done.”

All four teens released you, and you shot up, heading to the couch to sit with your cousin, licking your wounds per say.

The others mingled for a while before leaving, everyone thankfully not as roughed up as before and wearing smiles. You waved them all out the basement entrance before going back to Richie, slinging the battered (and drugged out) boy’s arm over your shoulder.

“Come on champ.” You encouraged, heading upstairs. Shutting the door to the basement behind you and maneuvering to the second story, pausing at the base of the staircase to bid your aunt and uncle good night.

"We're heading to bed. Love you guys."

They didn't bother to turn from the television, leftovers from the night before in their laps and eyes glued to the news.

“Assholes. They don’t even care...” Richie muttered lowly, but you shushed him softly, leading the boy one step at a time to the second story hall, where you dragged him to his bedroom.

Richie swayed as you reached to turn on his light, taking the boy to his bed and gently settling him a top the covers.

“[First Name]?” He slurred your name adorably, barely keeping onto his consciousness. You hummed in response, undoing his laces and setting his shoes on the floor beside his twin bed. He squirmed in the Star Wars covers, slipping his glasses off and dropping them on the nightstand.

“I’m glad you’re back.” Richie whispered hoarsely, scratching at the tape stuck to his nose from Eddie’s handiwork. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too Bucky Beaver.” You felt your heart melt and expression soften. He watched you with his big brown eyes, looking dead tired and bruised. He was still in his clothes from earlier and you sighed, knowing what you had to do. Walking to his dresser you grabbed a pair of pajama pants and a shirt from the drawers before returning to his side, shifting the dirtied jeans off his legs.

He let you do the deed, complaining only when you jerked the jeans too roughly off his ankles and drawing his pajama pants over bare legs. The change into his shirt was easier, and once that was over with and you had combed any mud that was left in his hair out, you straightened and threw his comforter over top his aching form.

“Love you, bud.” You said, stepping away from his bedside.

“Love you too.” He murmured, eyes fluttering in attempt to stay awake. “Thanks for beating up Bowers with a crowbar for me.”

“Tire iron.” You corrected with a chuckle, heading to the door. “You’re welcome, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Do we get up at six again?”

“No, we get up at six forty-five. You get to sleep in.” You walked to the door, turning off the light. Lost in his delirium, and maybe from the light headedness of his pain killers, Richie gave a quiet cheer.

“Yay.”

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