Kinktober 2023 -> Day 14

Sylus singing to MC's belly when MC is pregnant

Sylus, singing: Hush little baby, don't say a word. Papa's gonna buy you a mocking bird, and if that mocking bird won't sing, papa's gonna buy you a diamond ring~

[The Interview]

MC: Mama'd buy ten diamond rings to get that mocking bird to shut the hell up.

Vampires were missing a crucial element in their design in Supernatural, and I personally believe it was the charisma.

Look at ANY vampire media out there: Dracula (I recently watched Van Helsing), Interview With The Vampire, Lost Boys, etc. They’re all charming, smooth-talkers, able to lure in their prey with just words alone! Ex. That last scene in the first episode of Interview With The Vampire, where Lestat manages to gently coax Louis into letting him kill and turn him; or just look at Santiago as he acts in theater performances.

Vampires in Supernatural didn’t really have that. They were lacking in the charisma department, and the more I look at David in TLB as I’m writing my AU, the more cheated I feel.

ℭ𝔯𝔶 𝔏𝔦𝔱𝔱𝔩𝔢 𝔖𝔦𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯; II

{poly!lost boys x fem!reader}

♱ 𝔯𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤: explicit

♱ 𝔰𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: another day in santa carla, and it's already stranger than the first. conflicting feelings surface when you encounter the punks from the boardwalk again, and a challenge ends with you seeking help from the kind man running the video store.

♱ 𝔴𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: emerson!reader, fem!reader, reader is 18-19 (middle child), reader wears glasses, foul language, sibling dynamics, mentions of divorce, sexual harassment, stuck-up?reader (she's prissy at times), non-consensual touching, teasing

♱ 𝔞/𝔫: original word count was 4861, new word count is 6050

[1] … [3] … [8] [9]

You tuck a well-loved novel into your makeshift bookshelf, muttering a quiet, "Don't look at me like that, Bowie," to the stuffed snowy owl Grandpa deposited last night. 

Bowie didn't reply, but you swear his blue-and-green eyes gleam with judgment. 

"If you don't like it, then don't read," you remind him, pushing another racy novel behind his perch. 

Is it pathetic to talk to a piece of taxidermy? The jury's out. As of right now, he's your only friend. Somehow, both Sammy and Michael have made connections. Even Mom made one in the two seconds you weren't with her. 

Maybe you're doomed to be like Grandpa? A curmudgeonly hermit who loafed around the house in a bathrobe and soggy slippers. 

Talking Bowie means you were halfway there. 

You turn the owl around with a shudder.

You continue your chores softly humming with the Mamas and the Papas when someone knocks on your door.

Mom ducks her head in, wearing an apologetic look for disturbing the peace.

"—Well, I got down on my knees, (got down on my knees) and I pretended to pray!—"

You turn the sound down on your radio, "Yeah?"

"I wanted to check in with you. I'm heading to the video store—you can join me, if you like?" She shrugs. "You don't have to stay the whole time. Michael and Sam are heading to the beach if you'd rather join them."

You note the lack of choice: it's either/or, not neither. 

You could hem haw around—Gee, Mom, that sounds great, but I'm having so much fun unpacking!

Yeah. Not happening. She wants you to go out 'like old times,' but you don't have the heart to explain that 'old times' are meant to stay in the past.

And as much as you would love to cling to your mother's arm, you're not a child, and you want to give her a chance to explore this newfound something she formed with the Video Store Man.

"I'll go to the beach with Mike and Sammy."

Mom smiles, relieved. "That's great, honey. We can meet up at the boardwalk after my shift is over and get something to eat."

"Sure."

She blows a kiss and leaves. You hear her melodic voice float up the stairs as she tells Mike the news. He groans—probably complaining about how his bike can't fit three people—but Mom shuts him down by saying he can drive Grandpa's pickup. 

Michael barges into your room minutes later.

"Knock first!"

"Shouldda been born first," he fires back. Mike braces his arm on the door frame with a huff. "Listen—we're leaving in ten. Be ready by then."

"Fine—shut the door!"

He doesn't.

Asshole.

You change clothes, having spent all day in your PJs. You throw on a thin waffle knit sweater that used to belong to Mom and a gauzy skirt. You don't intend to get in the ocean, but pack a few books to pass the time. 

When you get downstairs, Sam and Michael are packed and ready, wearing wetsuits and sunglasses. 

Sam scrunches his nose when he sees you. "Where's your swimsuit?"

"Not wearing one."

"What? Is it shark week or somethin'?"

You flick him in the middle of his forehead. "No, you dweeb. You'd know if it were."

Sammy shudders. 

The drive to the beach is pleasant; plus, Grandpa's radio works. Michael tries to get in on the fight for control, but after getting slapped one too many times, he gives up. 

Berlin's Take My Breath Away crackled over the speakers, and Michael groans. "Turn this shit off."

"It doesn't make you think of a certain someone?" Sammy teases.

"Oh, that's right," you say. "You were stalker boy last night, weren't you?"

"Shut up."

Sammy piles on, "It's never gonna happen."

"No, never," I add, "your ugly mug's probably what scared her off."

Michael turns the channel.

When you reach the beach, the sky is a murky orange. The sun'll be setting soon, but according to Mike, this is one of the better times to surf. 

The boys do all the heavy lifting, and you lay out a towel; you situate yourself far enough from the water so you won't get wet, but not so far that you're on the hot, loose sand. 

You watch idly as your brothers paddle out but quickly lose interest. You crack open a book—one of your favorites—and immerse yourself in the story.

When you look up from your book and notice that the sun is halfway down the horizon and the beach is almost empty; Sam trudges up the sand and throws his board to the ground.

You raise an eyebrow. "Had enough?"

"I'm sick of falling off," he grumbles. He spreads his legs, hogging the towel. "Plus, those terrorists wouldn't leave me and Mikey alone."

Sammy juts his chin toward the ocean, and you follow his gaze. Michael is easy to spot—he's the one surrounded by surfers. One of them comes a little too close to Mike, and he, in an attempt to swerve, falls off his board. 

Sam sneers, digging through your beach bag for a snack. "What a waste of space."

You peer over the edge of your book. "He's not gonna give up, is he?"

Sam deadpans. "What do you think?"

Michael clamors onto his board. The 'terrorists,' as Sam so eloquently named them, paddle toward him for another go. You roll your eyes and snatch a handful of Bugles from Sammy's bag. You're in for a long night.

Forty minutes later, the sun is completely gone, and dusk overtakes the sky. You give up reading and instead toss M&Ms into Sam's mouth (which is actually harder to do in the dark than read). Michael jogs out of the ocean, frustrated. A little ways behind him, the surfer group terrorizing him laugh. Your stomach churns and you would've thrown a seashell at them if the wind wasn't whipped into a frenzy.

Instead, you toss Michael a towel, and he dries off. His cheeks are pinkish-red, though you don't know if that's a sunburn or embarrassment.

"Let's get outta here. Mom's probably wondering where we are." He jerks his head to Sam. "Help me pack the boards, will you?"

Sammy whines, "I just wanna go home—can you drop me off, Mike? I promise I won't take too long…"

Mikey grabs the scruff of his neck and drags him to the parking lot.

You take your time packing up and sigh. Hopefully, Mom will be happy. You've done your due diligence and made sure Michael and Sam kept their nose clean. You even got some sun. If that doesn't count as socialization, you don't know what would.

It's only when the group of surfers approach that you wish you'd followed your brothers.

Before you can take a step, a wet, slimy hand smacks your ass. You jerk, stumbling over a mound of sand as you try to distance yourself from the offender.

"Hey!"

"How ya doin', beautiful?"

He's an ugly son of a bitch. You don't need sun light to tell you that. His hair is black with a white stripe, like a skunk's. The surfers close rank around you. They're still soaked from the sea, reeking of saltwater and cigarettes.

You think about running, but you won't make it; the six of them will catch you before you clear the dunes. Your stomach flips.

Ass-grabber snickers at your distress. "Why's a nice girl like you hangin' 'round chumps like that?"

The stench of beer and sweat leaks from his pores.

You level a glare, "They're my brothers."

Ass-grabber shares a look with his lackeys. "Your brothers can't surf for shit. All they know how to do is wipe out."

"Yeah," you say, "you tend to fall when you're crowded like that."

They ooo, and your false bravado takes a hit. A few hushed, nasty comments are thrown your way and you out manuver a pair of wandering hands. They're drunk. Drunk and fixated on you. Might as well, right? You're the only Emerson they haven't antagonized.

"You got a mouth on you," says ass-grabber. He closes the distance between you in one stride, snatching your wrist. He pulls you close; his wetsuit soaks your sweater; his disgusting lips brush the shell of your ear. "I'd like to see what else it can do."

"Get off," you plea.

"'M gonna."

"No, get off!" You shove his chest, and he staggers.

"She's not interested, Greg."

The new voice startles you. You free your wrist and come face to face with a black leather jacket. Then, familiar blue eyes. Your lips part (to say—what? One look and he stole all the words from your mouth.) and you search his face.

It takes you a second to place him—and it comes from a shadow of a memory from the night before. The punks from the boardwalk.

You should be scared, but you're not. You see it in those captivating blue eyes of his, he doesn't want to mess with you. He's here to help. For now, at least, you let your guard down.

Greg glowers at the interruption. "Get off my beach."

The punk rips his gaze from yours with a shit-eating smirk. "Last I heard, the beach was public property, ay boys?"

He exchanges a glance with the rest of the boardwalk punks—one full of mirth and … something else. Something that you can't place, but it makes you uneasy. You take a step back lest you involve yourself in an Outsiders-esque rumble.

Greg gets in the leader's face. "I'll fuckin' kill you, man. Don't test me." You step back again, using the punks as a shield. You've never gotten in a fight before and you won't start now.

Greg's eyes flit between you and the group. And then—the strangest thing happens. He takes one look at the boys, and his eyes widen. The wind howls, but you swear you hear a growl. It's probably a passing car, but it chills you to the bone.

Greg's fear vanishes in a flash, and he scoffs. "You don't deserve my time."

The surfers trickle away one by one until they're just pinpricks on the sand, but the punks stay.

Finally, they face you, and you cradle your bulging tote bag like an iron shield. You're disgusted, you feel violated, and you're tempted to lose your cool on the punks, but their arrival prevented a worse outcome. For that, you're grateful.

Reluctantly, you admit that.

"Thank you." You push your hair back, holding it in place as the wind picks up. "I appreciate your help."

"No problem, baby." The taller blond smiles, capturing his tongue between his teeth.

There it is again. That long, drawn-out bay-bee. You clench your jaw. Maybe you should've run off.

These guys make you uncomfortable, but not like the surfers. No, it's a different sort. A discomfort that you've never felt before. It's all warm and awkward, like fluttering in your stomach.

As if he could sense your apprehension, the leader speaks. "Believe it or not, those guys are bigger assholes than us."

You scoff a laugh and his lips twitch.

He continues, "What are you doing out at this hour? Don't you know there are weirdos around?"

"I'm here with my family." They deign to look around the beach, but it's empty. You blush. "They're packing the car."

"Wasn't smart of them to leave you alone. This isn't exactly a safe place, you know?"

"Yeah," says Curly. "Just last week a bunch of body parts washed up on the shore. They dunno if it was a murder or a shark."

You frown. "You're kidding, right?"

Curly's grin is sharp enough to bite. "Why would we lie about something like that? Do you think we like scaring innocent girls like you for fun?"

"Uh, yeah."

The leader cocks his head, sizing you up. You swear his gaze burns you from the inside out, like hellfire. You resist the urge to shudder. 

"You left before we could introduce ourselves," he says, referencing last night. "I'm David. That's Paul—" bay-bee boy "—Marko—" Curly "—and Dwayne." The pretty brunette.

You try not to look interested (because you're not) and nod. "Well, have a nice night."

"You're not gonna tell us yours?" Marko asks.

You start to tell him 'no,' but you get the feeling he won't quit until you admit it, so tell them your first name. "I have to go."

"What? Can't hang, baby?" Paul snickers, ruffling your hair. You smack his hand away.

"It's not that—I have people waiting for me." You glance over the ridge again, praying your idiot brothers haven't left you. "Plus, I doubt I'd be much fun."

Your words elicit a new wave of laughter. Paul slings his arm over Marko's shoulder, "I think we'll be the judge of that."

Your face burns, and you stammer, "That's not what I meant."

God, they're disgusting. You hug yourself, willing your stomach to stop flipping. 

"I dunno, Paul, that seems like the only way to take that," says Marko. He pinches your nose. "You're cute when you're flustered." 

"I'm not—"

A hand reaches out—too fast for you to identify which boy, but you assume it's one of the terror twins—and snatches your glasses from your face. 

You react a second too late. "Hey!"

"Wow—" Paul, you think, "—You're pretty blind. How can you see?"

"I can't, you jerk! That's why I wear glasses!"

"How many fingers am I holding up?" Marko thrusts his hand in your face. 

"Give them back!" You lunge at where you thought he was, but he vanishes into thin air. 

You stumble into a chest. A pair of hands curl around your biceps. "What's the magic word, baby?"

Paul.

You bite your cheek. You refuse to cry in front of them. "Please?"

"Actually, it's da—oof!" Someone punches him before he can finish.

Paul vanishes from behind you, and you sniffle; you're pissed, you're embarrassed, and you wish that you were standing in quicksand. (Better yet, you wish they were standing in quicksand.)

"Here."

Someone presses your glasses into your hands. You put them on quickly, ignoring the fingerprint smudges on the lenses. 

You blink up at your savior—the gorgeous brunette. The one who, until now, hadn't said a single word. Dwayne, maybe?

"Thank you," you whisper, wishing your voice was stronger.

There may be a decent one among them, after all.

He smiles, and your heart stutters. This man could be on the cover of a romance novel, Jesus. You quickly look down, but that was the worst choice because he's shirtless under that leather jacket. You pinch your lips together and look literally anywhere else—there's a seagull, an abandoned kite, some trash...

"Don't tell me Dwayne makes you nervous," says Marko. "He doesn't bite, do you big guy?"

Dwayne shrugs, "Not hard."

Killing you would have been kinder. You’re a pile of goo, your face burns (but you tell yourself it’s from the sun), and if they keep this up you don’t know what will become of you.

"Do you want a ride?" David asks. "Seems like yours ditched you."

Michael. Sam. 

Fuck, that's right.

"No, they're just waiting for me," you say again.

On cue, Michael peers over the dunes, shouting your name. "C'mon! What's taking you so long?! Sammy's about to have an aneurysm."

A squeaky "Am not, Mike!" follows.

"Coming!" You burst through the boys but stop halfway up the dunes. "Um, thanks again, I guess."

David tilts his head, his eyes gleaming in the moonlight. "The offer still stands."

But you pretend you don't hear him and jog to the waiting truck.

Michael waits for you with a frown, eyeing the boys. "Are you okay?" 

You don't want to get into it, so you say, "Let's go."

Mom is anxiously waiting when Michael pulls into the lot. She greets you with a hug and a kiss. "Where's Sam?"

"Home," says Michael. "He's beat."

"Okay." She eyes his bike and squeezes your hand. "How was the ride over?"

You scoff, "At least he didn't crash this time."

Mike takes offense. "That was one time."

You stick your tongue out. One time and one ER visit too many in your book.

"Well, I'm starved." Mom rubs her hands together, smiling. "What do you say we go out to eat? I saw a great little place over there…"

Michael shrugs. "I think I wanna look around for a bit."

"Oh. Well, that's okay."

"I'll meet up with you later," he says, disappearing into the crowd.

"I guess it's just you and me, kiddo. What do you say? You wanna go home and make some pasta?"

"Yeah," you say, but your voice is an octave too high.

Mom sighs, but she's not disappointed. "What do you really want to do?"

Damnit. She's good.

Sheepishly, you tell the truth, "There's a bookshop around the corner, and I'd really like to check it out."

"Aw, sweetie." Mom squeezes your arm, pulling you into another hug. "I want you to have fun. You're not going to hurt my feelings by saying no, I promise."

"Yeah, but…"

"No buts. Go look at books. I think I'll head home. Are you okay riding with Michael again? I know how you feel about…"

She gestures to the bike.

You cringe at the offending metal. "We made it here in one piece. I'm sure it'll be fine."

"Okay, honey. Enjoy yourself, alright? And you have Grandpa's number if you need it?"

"Yeah."

"I won't tell you not to stay out too late because you're a big girl, but be safe."

You smile, "I'll be home before midnight. I promise."

She relaxes ever so slightly, and it warms your heart. It almost makes you change your mind.

She waves goodbye, heading for the Land Rover. You square your shoulders and head back into the masses.

The bookstore is overcrowded tonight. 

Well, it's not, but you spot a few unsavory characters (namely Greg and his surfer douches), which makes you rush back to the parking lot. You're not ready for round two. 

Luckily, Michael's bike was still there, otherwise you would've been screwed.

You sit on the Death Trap (the name you gave Mike's stupid motorcycle a few years back) until you see Michael heading your way. You almost call out ...

... until you see he's with a girl.

"Shit," you whisper. 

Michael's puppy dog grin diminishes when he spots you. 

He looks ... different. He's wearing a leather jacket with the tag sticking out of the shirt sleeve. He's even combed his hair back. He looked like an off-brand version of David and his gang.

The girl eyes you warily. Michael rubs the back of his neck, glancing between you and her. 

"Um. Star, this is my sister."

You wave. If you were in a better mood, you would have teased him, but after the day you've had, ribbing Michael is the last thing on your mind.

"I'm so sorry. I didn't think you'd have company and Mom ... took off, and I'm... I'm sorry."

You've never felt more shitty in your life. For all the crap you give him, Michael's a decent guy. There's no way he'd choose a random girl over his sister.

But at the same time, you don't want him to make that choice. It's not fair.

"It's fine," he says. "We'll work this out."

Star readjusts her purse, "Maybe we should do this another time."

"Star," Michael starts to say something, but it fizzles out. 

Before he can try to salvage the evening, the roar of engines rips through the air. You jerk out of your seat as four stripped-down bikes corner you. Driving the beasts are four familiar faces, so familiar that you almost say, What? Are you guys stalking me?

But you don't because David beats you to the punch.

David raises his eyebrows. A dangerous aura overcame him—an aura that made you feel small and insignificant. "Where ya going, Star?"

Oh.

Apparently, they're not here for you. It ... stings, if you're honest.

She set her jaw. "For a ride. This is Michael."

David's gaze jumps to your brother. He sizes him up and smirks. It's like you're not even there.

He turns back to Star and says, "Let's go."

Star hesitates, and you wonder—why? Clearly, there's something there. Their history is palpable; regardless of whether it's romantic or platonic, you don't care. But the look on Michael's face crushes you.

Subtly, you insert yourself in between her and Michael. The last thing you need is for some girl to string him along. 

"Star," David says again, impatience seeping into his lazy drawl. 

She makes a face, but David doesn't budge. He stares her down as if daring her to challenge him. Reluctantly, she chooses David, draping her arm languidly over his chest as she climbs on. 

You expect David to burn rubber. He's got his girl; he's made his point. Now's the time to peel out and leave the Emersons in the dust. 

But he doesn't. 

Finally, David looks at you, and that weird feeling returns. You cross your arms, but you can't look away.

David doesn't want you to, though. And even though he speaks to Michael, he doesn't stop staring at you. "Do you know where Hudson's Bluff is, overlooking the point?"

Michael's confidence falters. "I can't beat your bike."

David revs his engine. "You don't have to beat me, Michael. You just have to keep up."

There's a pause, and it breaks the spell David held over you. Michael shifts his attention to you, Star, and the gang. You know your brother—your idiotic, competitive brother. He's considering it. There's one surefire way to get under his skin: challenge him. David, whether he knows this weakness or not, is exploiting it. 

But Michael holds back. He nods toward you. "I've got my little sister with me..."

"You can bring her," says Marko. "We don't mind, do we, baby?"

He winks, snickering as Paul whispers in his ear.

"Don't talk about her," Michael snaps.

You hold your hand out, "Mike, don't."

"Yeah, Mikey." Paul grins; you don't like what it does to you.

David says your name, and you instantly react. He gives you the same look he gave Star, goading you, commanding you. It's an invitation as much as it's a demand. 

Again, he says, "The offer still stands."

You swallow hard and say, "I shouldn't." 

David frowns. 

You turn to Michael, keeping your voice soft. "I know you want to go."

Michael grits his teeth. "I'm not going to leave you here."

"I'll be fine."

A beat of silence. He purses his lips. "Are you sure?"

You're not. You're scared shitless at the thought of being left alone on the boardwalk, but you can't tell him that. You won't. You see the way he grips his handlebars. He wants to impress these guys—impress that girl.

Michael is annoying, but he's your brother, and you refuse to hold him back even if he will make stupid choices.

You can't be his voice of reason when he'll tune you out.

So, you say, "I'll figure something out. Maybe that guy from the video store will know something?"

Mike relaxes. "... Fine."

You go to leave, but David catches you. His grip is gentle—barely there. He slips his hand from your wrist to your cheek, forcing you to look at him. 

He's touching you.

Your skin tingles. 

"Last chance," he says.

No sits on the tip of your tongue. It's the comfortable answer—the only answer—but saying yes is tempting. It dangles from your lips like a snake's hiss, your yes, your acceptance of David and everything he offers. 

You can picture it perfectly: climbing onto their bikes, feeling their leather jackets against your skin.

Skin on skin, chests crushed against each other. Hot, deep kisses that leave you breathless.

Hands trailing over your body—up your sweater, down your skirt, around your waist, over your breasts.

Tongues exploring every inch of your skin. 

It would be easy to say yes. You ... You want to say yes. 

Michael says your name, and you snap back to the present. You blink, rapidly clearing that perverted vision from your mind, your thoughts evaporating like smoke. 

You step away from David, letting his hand drop.

"Like I said," you murmur, "I wouldn't be much fun." You turn to Michael, plastering a wholesome grin on your face. "Be safe, Mikey."

"Tell your little sister bye-bye, Mikey," Paul jeers. 

Knowing you'll change your mind, you can't make yourself look back. So, you thrust yourself into the crowd and embrace the chaos.

By some miracle, you don't spot Greg or the surfers again when you reach the video store. A rush of cold air kisses your sweat-slick skin when you cross the threshold. Soft music plays overhead, and a handful of customers browse the offerings hung on the wall. It's a brightly colored dreamland, everything neon and glittery, designed to catch your attention.

In the center of the room is a counter, and behind it stands a tall, broad-shouldered man. He passes change to his customer and greets you with a smile.

"Hello, how may I help you?"

"Are you Max?" His eyebrows twitch inward, but he nods, still smiling. You give him your name. "I'm Lucy's daughter."

"Lucy's—of course you are! What can I do for you on this lovely evening? Did she forget something?"

"Yes and no." You readjust your glasses. "My ride bailed and I was looking for a phone to call her. You don't happen to have one, do you?"

"By all means!" He pulls a sleek, rotary phone from beneath the counter. "Have at it."

"Thank you."

You dig through your purse and withdraw a neatly-folded piece of paper with Grandpa's number. Everything's going to be fine, you reassure yourself. You tuck the receiver under your ear and dial. The line rings ... and rings ... and rings.

Nothing.

You try again, consciously aware of Max watching you from the corner of his eye.

The phone rings again. No one picks up.

Shit.

Did you write the number wrong? You don't have a phone book or you'd triple check, but you swear you did that before leaving the house.

"Is everything okay?" Max leans against the counter, concern coloring his face.

Defeated, you hang up and push the phone toward him. "I'm sure it is."

"Did someone pick up?"

"No." You bite your cheek to keep the panic at bay. "No, uh, they didn't. Thank you, anyway. I'll figure something out. Maybe hitch a ride, or ..."

"Have you hitched before?"

You strain to smile. "There's a first time for everything, right?"

Max doesn't smile. "No, I'm afraid I can't let you do that. Santa Carla isn't the wholesome place it used to be and I cannot, in good conscience, have you go out alone. I'll drive you."

Eyes wide, you backpedal, "Oh, no! You can't, you're in the middle of work and I just, I can't."

"Nonsense. Maria!" He motions for the pretty cashier to come closer. "Can you handle the store for a little bit? I have an errand to run. It shouldn't take more than an hour."

"Not a problem."

Max slides out from behind the counter and parrots Maria's words. "See? Not a problem."

"I don't want to get you in any trouble..."

Max chortles. He lays a hand on the small of your back and guides you out of the store. "My dear, I own the place. Although, if it makes you feel better, I'll reprimand myself when I get back."

Max has a nice car. Like, a really nice car. It has air conditioning that actually works and a stereo system that's out of this world. Plus—you can crank the windows up and down without them getting stuck! It's nothing like Mom's car, and everything like your father's back in Phoenix.

But Max isn't anything like your dad, which is probably why Mom loves him.

He makes light conversation in between you giving directions.

"Your necklace is pretty."

"Oh, thank you." You wear it so much that you barely think about it anymore. It's simply a chunk of quartz on a cord. You touch it, feeling its weight in your palm. "It used to be my mom's, but I took it so often she eventually gave it to me."

When you were younger, you used to think it was a magic rock that could grant you wishes. Now, you feel naked if you don’t wear it.

"Do you like crystals?"

"I guess so, yeah. They're pretty."

Max hums, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. "What's your favorite?"

"Um, well, I like quartz, but I think my favorite is obsidian."

He nods, "Remind me, which one is that again?"

"It's black. I don't know why, but it's always been my favorite."

"There's a shop on the boardwalk, somewhere around the theater, I think. I never go that way, myself, but I have met the owner during the occasional meeting. She's a nice woman. Has a big selection of crystals, if I'm right. You might like it."

His thoughtfulness strikes a cord with you. You can see why Mom likes him, he's charming.

"I'll have to check it out," you say. "Maybe I'll find my mom something to replace this old thing."

Max chuckles. "That's very generous of you. Most people think of themselves first. You have a giving heart—just like your mother."

"Oh, I don't know about that. She makes it easy."

Max turns the corner, and picks a new thread of conversation. "How do you like Santa Carla so far?"

"It's okay. We used to come out here a lot during the summer, but we haven't in ... almost a decade, I think?"

"It's a wonder we never met until now."

You shrug. "There's a lot of people in Santa Carla."

"That's true." Max turns the dial. A new radio station sifts through his speakers, and though it's not a genre you like, you don't mind. It's not like you're listening anyway.

To fill the void, you keep talking. "My dad never liked it here. He always cut our visits short. I can't remember even coming to the boardwalk back then."

"And your father, he's ...?"

"Back in Phoenix," you say. "They're divorced."

"I see." He keeps his tone light, but you can tell he's secretly glad to hear that. "It must be tough for you. You've uprooted your entire life."

"I’d do it again if it helped Mom, but if I’m honest? I feel like an outcast here. Everything is so different."

"Do you not like different?"

"It's not that I don't like it, I'm just not used to it." You laugh at yourself, adding, "I'm not the adventurous type. Mike and Sammy, they're outgoing, but I'm ... not. I tried, but it's not for me. I'm a homebody."

"There's nothing wrong with that."

"You'd be the first to think it."

Maybe that's not fair to Mom, but it's true. She doesn't get it. You know she means well when she sends you out with your brothers, and you'll suffer through if it makes her happy, but you'd rather be at home. Even now, you're kicking yourself for not going with her.

Max glances at you. "Home is where the heart is, as they say."

"The heart is Mom," you say, not-so-subtly implying that Santa Carla isn't home. "I'm just ... there."

"A home needs a heart, a mother; that much is true. But a home also needs a solid foundation, something to hold it steady, something that makes sure it doesn't sink or shift. Now, some people might say that's the father's role, but not always. You strike me as that kind of person."

You're thankful it's dark because you fluster when he speaks. "That's kind of you to say."

"It's just an observation from an old man."

You snort. Max isn't old. "I guess I'm an exception to the middle kid stereotype—you know, how they're supposed to be wild and all that." You tried to be that a long time ago. You were that way, but ... "Mom's always needed a friend, especially this last year with everything. She does her best, but sometimes she needs help. I don't mind doing that."

Max softens, fondly glancing your way. "I wish my boys had someone like you around. Maybe you could knock some sense into them."

"You have sons?"

"Oh, yes. They are," Max whistles, "they're a handful, that bunch. I try. I've given them everything, but they're reckless. As untamed as wild horses."

"I'm sure you do fine."

"They would disagree with you," he laughs. "What they need is something they've never had: a mother. Now, I can give them discipline, but they need that-that heart. Or, a foundation, for that matter." He winks at you conspiratorially. "I hope they get that one day before it's too late."

You smile awkwardly, but words evade you. The conversation took a strange turn.

Max pulls up to your house. The totem poles tower over his sleek car like grim sentinels welcoming you back to the pit. But, Max doesn't unlock the car.

"Look, I don't want to make you uncomfortable, but I have to ask," Max says. "I like your mother very much. She's ... She's unlike any woman I've ever met. I know I haven't known her long, and I understand you all are going through a difficult transition ..."

You gently cut his ramblings short. "She likes you, too, Max."

"Really?" You nod. Max exhales, running his hands through his perfectly coiffed hair. "Then ... you wouldn't mind if I ask her on a date?"

"You seem like a great guy. I think she would love that. But it's up to her to say yes," you remind him.

"Of course! Thank you—your consent means more to me than you know."

He unlocks the car and you hop out. "Thanks again for this."

"Any time. Have a good night, my dear!"

You wave goodbye and head inside.

Everyone's asleep by now. The house is dark, save for a lone lamp Mom must have left on for your arrival. You wander into the living room and snatch the phone off the wall. But, instead of the dial tone, you're met with silence.

Damnit, Grandpa. What's the point of having a phone if it doesn't work? If you hadn't found Max, you would have been in serious shit tonight.

You don't remember until later that you stopped giving Max directions at some point.

That night, you dream of David, Dwayne, Paul, and Marko. They flight through your window one by one wearing jackets made of animal fur and leaves and dance on the ceiling.

"Can I come with you?" You watch them with awe, wishing you could fly, too. "Please?"

David extended his hand. "All you had to do was ask."

They lift you out of bed and you soar through the sky. You're not afraid, not as you touch the stars or do loops around the boardwalk rollercoaster. You find comfort in their company. They give you freedom when you hold their hands.

"Where are we going?" you ask.

"Second star to the right and straight on 'til morning," Marko jokes.

They take you to their hideout in the trees and lay you on a bed of moss. They stroke your nude body. You can't remember losing your clothes, but it's okay. You like it when they touch you. It feels different. It feels good.

Hands turn into mouths; tongues lick your flesh, mouths suck your nipples, your neck, and lower. Much, much lower.

"Join us, wendy-bird." Their voices warp, whispering, overlapping over one another. "Be our lost girl."

Be ours.

The pleasure intensifies. Your surrounding blur, but you see their faces with perfect clarity. They're beautiful. You want to tell them this. Why haven't you?

Be ours.

They laugh. They moan. They take turns lavishing you with their attention until you're drunk on them.

The dream ends the moment one of them tries to penetrate you. It was so vivid, so real, that when you wake the next morning you're ... disappointed?

Yeah, disappointed. Not that you'll admit it outside of this drowsy state, warm, yet, alone in your bed. You're disappointed in yourself, and disappointed in your imagination, but most of all, you're disappointed that you didn't tell David yes.

Hello!! Can you do asking Buggy, Mihawk, and Crocodile who’s the prettiest girl in the world??

Hey, hello! So, I feel like this question can be interpreted in two ways: you wanting to be called a pretty girl, and you asking them like they’re a puppy… I came at it from the latter. Hope you like what I’ve written for you.💜💜

CW: SFW, gn!reader, headcanons, some fluff, smidge of humor

Who’s the prettiest girl? (Cross Guild)

Buggy

His face turned tomato red both from embarrassment and flattery.

The way his breath caught in his throat made him sound like a snorting bulldog.

The audacity of it all! He was a grown man, an intimidating man, an emperor!

His face twisted into a pout the longer you looked at him with absolutely no malice or ill intentions in your presence—just adoration for him.

Sinking into his armchair, he grumbled a bit. “I am…” he murmured.

“Hm? What was that?” You teased.

“I am!” He huffed loudly.

You threw your arms around him and gave him the cuddle he was secretly after upon confessing that he was, indeed, the prettiest girl.

Mihawk

He blinked at you.

When he took a bit longer to respond than you’d anticipated, you felt like shrinking into your skin as the awkwardness you were creating dawned on you.

“You are,” he said flatly.

Your lips quivered a bit and you let out a soft, “Aww.”

When you inched closer, he could tell what you wanted from that sweet look upon your face. 

He opened his arms and gave you that hug you clearly wanted.

As he rubbed your back gingerly, you blurted, “I am the prettiest!”

“Yes. Yes, you are.”

Crocodile

His posture tensed as your question fell on his ears. 

He looked up at you, annoyance written all over his scarred face. His tongue flicked at his cigar.

“Hope this isn’t your way of being cute.” There was a faint huff of amusement in the ridiculousness of your question.

Okay, maybe you caught him in a bad mood…well, worse than usual.

You’d always been a bit of a wild card in your own right, one to play with fire. He both loved and despised that about you.

An exasperated sigh left him when he realized you weren’t going to let it go. “Me.”

That was the best you were ever going to get out of him, so you gladly took it as a win.

Bad moon rising I

Summary: After a nasty divorce, you and your family are forced to live with your Grandpa in the lovely notorious Santa Carla, California. Filled with punks, geeks, surfer nazis and apparently all kinds of creatures of the night.

Word count: 3.1k

Poly!lost boys x Emerson!reader

[1] [2] [3] [4]

A/n: This is the first time writing for the lost boys, I will let yall know if there are any major warnings in each chapters or not. But I hope that you guys enjoy reading the first chapter.

‘Don't go around tonight

Well it's bound to take your life

There's a bad moon on the rise’

Your legs were killing you. 

After hours of sitting in the back seat of the Land Cruiser, you were growing restless. And Nanook didn’t really help when the dog draped his entire body over your lap, his weight making both of your legs go numb. 

You could hear the sounds of your brothers and mom arguing over which radio station they should listen too for the rest of the drive. The occasional static from the radio making you roll your eyes. 

Maybe your legs weren’t the only thing tired from the long drive, maybe the voices of your family were starting to drive you crazy. 

“Oh,” your mom suddenly said, turning up the music that was currently on. “This one is from my generation.” A smile inched its way on your face as you watched mom dance along to the music. 

Both Sam and Micheal turned to face each other, a soft grin playing other lips as they listened to the ole timey song. “Keep going.” They said together. 

“Ok, ok, I get it.” Mom said as she switched the channel. “My music isn’t hip enough for you guys.”

You leaned forward in your seat, hand resting on Nanooks fur to keep him still. “Hip?” 

“Yeah, you know. Cool, fresh, narly.” Your mom told you, bringing her hand up to do a surfers hand gesture. 

You glanced over at Micheal, trying to see if he too was hearing what mom was describing. He just gave you a playful eye roll, and a shake of his head. Not wanting to tell mom that nobody actually used those words in real life. 

“We’re almost there.” Your mom told you in a sing song manor. 

Glancing past Micheal you saw a billboard, the words Welcome to Santa Carla read across the front, an image of the towns beach drawn on cartoonishly. 

Sam let out a gag, his nose turnt up towards the window. “What’s that smell?” He asked, quickly rolling up the glass to try and block the stench from entering the car. 

Mom closed her eyes, taking a long sniff of the outside breeze. “That’s the ocean air, baby”

“It smells like someone died.”

You snorted at your youngest brothers comment, he wasn’t totally wrong. The saltyness that suffocated the air around you was a bit much, but you’d grow used to it, you all will eventually. 

“Look guys, I know the last year has been tough.” Mom said, glancing back at the rear view mirror at both you and Micheal. “But I think your really gonna like it here.”

You couldn’t count on either hands on how many times your mother had said those exact words to you three. It always starts with the ‘I know’ and always ends in your really gonna like this place. But, if you were being a hundred percent honest you missed back home. 

All of your friends and what’s left of your now broken family is all back home in Phoenix. And you know that mom is doing all that she can to keep everything positive, but deep down you know that the divorce is hurting her just as badly as it is hurting you and your brothers. 

As the car continued to drive down the road, you watched as the sign showed the back. It was packed with graffiti art and even a couple of stickers stuck to wood. But, what caught your attention most was the five letter word painted in black and red. 

Murder capital of the world.

Upon entering Santa Carla, you’ve noticed that there is just about any type of person you could imagine walking along the streets. There were girls in bathing suits, guys with halve shaved heads, groups of tourists, the locals, nerds, jocks. Hell you even saw a dog with its fur colored pink. 

You just hoped that at night the people were better looking. 

Mom pulled beneath the cover of a food shack, allowing everyone to step out and get some fresh air after ten hours on the road. Sam leashed up Nanook and took him to the bathroom, also venturing his new home town by himself as he did so. 

You woke up your legs as you stepped out of the Land Cruiser, the nerves shooting up and down your body, you wobbled a bit on your feet before steadying yourself against the car. You felt sweat begin to form beneath your clothes, causing them to stick uncomfortably to your skin. “Holy cow.” You muttered gently fanning yourself to try and cool off a little. 

You were used to the heat from the sun, but God, the humidity is what’s gonna kill you this summer.  

As you continued to fan yourself off, you noticed all the small shops that surrounded you. They were old and kind of antique-ish looking. But, past that laid the boardwalk, were you knew you’d be spending the remainder of you summer break and nights. 

Sam came jogging back towards the car, Nanook right on his tail. He stopped before mom as he pointed a finger at the boardwalk behind him. “Mom! Mom, there’s and amusement park right on the beach.”

Instead of acknowledging the said park, you watched as mom pulled out a small wad of cash. Placing it in Sam’s hand she gestured to a group of homeless kids rummaging through the dumpster. “Sam, tell those kids to eat something. Will ya’?”

As you watch Sam walk over towards the kids, you notice a telephone pole covered from head to toe in posters. Stepping away from the car and wandering over you read a few, hoping to catch a couple help wanted ads or even just something small enough to help out your family. 

Though instead of any job listing you did find a good amount of missing children posters. Actually, it’s just about a missing everyone poster. There is a little boy that looks about six, a grainy picture of him is nailed down with staples. And beside it is a man in what looks like his mid to early fourties, his balding head and crooked teeth makes you wonder who would miss a guy like that. 

Glancing past the telephone pole, you eyed the teenagers in the dumpster carefully. For all you know these kids could go missing next, and no one would try and look for them. 

The thought made your stomach twist in a discusted knot, the idea that you or even one of your brothers could turn up missing one day and nobody would bat an eye, didn’t sit right with you. 

A car honked from behind you, turning around you noticed that your family is back in the cars AC and that they are all waiting on you. “Y/n, sweetheart.” Your mom called, poking her head out the window. “We have to go, grandpas waiting for us.”

You quickly made your way back to the car, plopping back down in your seat as mom slowly pulled out of the food shack. The feeling of cold breeze in your face cooled you off a lot more than your hand did. 

After a while the car pulled up to an old two story house, the arch way made out of tree limbs and nails made you question how sturdy that would actually be in a storm. Once the car came to a complete stop everyone piled out, the dirt road beneath you dirtied up the end of your blue jeans. The bottom of your converse’s making little patterns in the grime. 

Micheal, who had decided to ride his bike for the rest of the drive, slowly unstradled the vehicle, his eyes darting around the front yard of the house. Wood carvings of animals and an old trailer was near the back of the yard, the fence that surrounded us was slightly spaced out and cut into sharp ends. 

“This is homey.” You muttered to micheal, the backpack that you carried felt heavy on your back after hours of not wearing it. 

Micheal hummed in agreement, albeit sarcasticly. 

Glancing back at the house itself, you took in the porch, it had one too many rocking chairs and wooden tables for you to count. There were even empty beer bottles rolling across the porch floor. But, you stopped judging the home style around you when you noticed a pair of legs laid out on the ground. 

Taking erie steps, you all cautiously eyed the body. Both fear and concern bubbling deep inside of you. Fear that this would be the first dead body you’ve seen and concern over who will come and clean it. 

Mom walked ahead of you and your brothers, crouching down by the head of the body. “Dad?” She asked, swiping hair out of his face as she did so. “Dad?”

“It looks like he’s dead.” Micheal stated, eyes glancing swiftly from his mom and the supposedly dead body before them. 

Mom shook her head, gently shaking her dad awake. “No, he’s just a heavy sleeper.” 

“Why is he asleep on the porch?” Micheal asked, trying to understand the older man. 

You leaned over Sam’s shoulder, taking in the supposedly dead corpse in front of you. “Is the heat from the sun gonna make his body decay faster?” You pondered out loud, ignoring the glare your mom gave you. 

“Yeah. And if he’s dead can we move back to Phoenix?” Sam added on for you, receiving the same look your mom just gave you. 

“The both of you be quiet.” She scolded. 

Suddenly grandpas head popped up, his eyes half lidded as he held a smug smirk. “Playin’ dead. And, from what I heard doing a damn good job of it, too.”

You watched as mom playfully swatted at her dad, before leaning down and giving him a good hug. Sharing a quick glance at your brothers, they both held the same expression that you did. Confused and slightly baffled at how the old man acts. 

The inside of the house looked just like the cabins from Friday the thirteenth. The floor was wood, the stairs were wood, an even the walls were wood. You honestly wouldn’t be surprised if the refrigerator and sink were made out it, too.

You walked through the house with a cardboard box labeled kitchen, both Sam and Micheal right behind you. Though Micheal was carrying a barbell with a couple of weights and shirts on it, and Sam had a bowl on his head with tied up comics ontop. 

“This place is straight out of a horror movie.” Sam whined, as they reached the kitchen. “I wouldn’t be surprised if their are dead body’s buried somewhere.”

“It’s not that bad.” you tried to reason, placing the box onto the counter and cutting through the tape. 

Sam stared at you bewildered, “Not that bad? Not that bad!” He started to raise his voice, setting down the comics and bowl beside you as he continued. “There’s no TV. Have you seen a TV? I haven’t seen a TV.”

You shrugged your shoulders, taking a couple porcelain plates from the box and setting them in a cabinet. “Use your imagination.”

“Imagination?” The boy raised his voice a little bit higher. “You know who else used there imagination? The Torrence family, and they ended up trying to kill each other.”

“Ok, one this is not The Shinning. And, two, you kill me I’ll haunt you for the rest of your life.” 

Micheal chuckled at yours and Sam’s conversation, “Oh, you think this is funny Micheal?” Sam asked the irritation of no TV or even MTV was starting to get to him. 

“A little.” He told his brother, placing the barbell down and walking back towards the car. “But, we’re flat broke, Sammy. Can’t afford a new TV for this joke of a place.”

You walked back and forth from the car, box after box, cutting open and placing your stuff with Grandpas. It was tiring, but, you wanted to get it done now so that you could go to the boardwalk tonight. 

Though your brothers on the other hand, weren’t as helpful as you were trying to be. 

Sam ran through the living room, swaying between the boxes that littered the ground as he sprinted away from Micheal. The said older boy was running down the stairs, he hoped over the railing near the bottom and took off after Sam. 

You were pulling out a vase from a box, tearing off the bubble wrap and placing it perfectly on the table. You took a small step back and eyed the spot, debating if you should move it one way or another for it to look right. 

But, as you stepped back, you acidently stood right infront of Micheal’s path. He collided with your side, sending you both tumbling to the ground. “Dammit, Micheal!” You shouted, quickly getting up just as your brother did. Continuing with his chase after Sam, you immediately ran after him. 

“Hey, guys, no running in the house.” Mom called out to the three of you, though no one paid her any mind as you all just continued to chase one another. 

Sam stopped before two sliding doors, shoving each of them open. You and Micheal caught up with your brother, you about ready to shove Micheal for knocking you to the ground, when you saw what laid behind the double doors. 

Taxidermy animals laid on the table in front of you, some were even hung up to the ceiling because there was no more room on the surface. The three of you stood shocked at the room, you more disturbed that so many dead animals were cut open like they currently were. 

“I think we found the dead bodies, Sam.” You told him, referring to your earlier talk about grandpa hiding dead corpses. 

Sam let out a snort, eyeing the room with interest. Micheal leaned up against your side, his elbow coming up to rest on your shoulder. Even at pratically the same height he liked to remind you which of the two was the tallest. 

“Talk about Texas chainsaw massacre.” 

“Rules.” A voice suddenly called out, bringing each of your attention to grandpa who had a cardboard box in hand. “We got some rules around here.”

He gestured with his hand to follow, which you all did begrudgingly. The old man led you to the refrigerator, and upon opening it you saw a sign that read, ‘Old fart’. You hid your amused smile behind your hand as Grandpa began to explain the rules. 

“The second shelf is mine.” He stated matter of factly, easing the sign to show a couple of beer bottles and a box of Oreos hidden behind it. He waved a finger at all three of you, “Don’t nobody touch the second shelf, ya’ hear.”

You nodded along with your brothers, grandpa then waddled out of the kitchen leaving you to trail behind him. You watched discustedly as Micheal began to shove his finger in Sam’s ear, the younger boy trying to push him away when Micheal wrapped an arm around the poor boys neck. 

Clearing his throat, Micheal directed his attention back at grandpa. “Hey, grandpa? Is it true that Santa Carla is the murder capital of the world?” He asked, refusing to let Sam go from his grasp. 

Murder capital of the world. 

Those were the exact words you’d read off the back of the billboard. You hadn’t known that Micheal had read that aswell, although he appears to be taking the towns chosen nickname more jokingly than you had. 

Grandpa slowly turned back around to face the three of you, his eyes darting across each face. “There are some bad elements around here.” He told you, though his voice seemed to be a lot more serious than anything. 

Sam finally shoves Micheal off of him, “Woah, wait a minute. You mean to tell me that we moved to the murder capital of the world?” He asked, getting close to the old man’s face. “Are you serious grandpa?”

You watched as grandpa took his time with his next words of choice. “Well- let me put it this way; if all the corpses buried around here were to stand up at once, we’d have a serious population problem.”

That did about anything but soothe your racing mind. Are we gonna get killed here? Are you actually going to go missing and nobody would care? Could Sam, Micheal or even mom turn up dead one day?

Your thoughts immediately went back to the missing posters, all the untraced people that had disappeared off the face of the earth. And not one of them had been found. You don’t think your gonna like it here all that much, you concluded. 

Mom suddenly sauntered in the living room, a stack of hats resting ontop of her head. “Oh, Dad. You’re gonna give them nightmares.” She told him, not wanting to deal with three teenagers wandering into her room at night complaining about what grandpa had told them. 

Grandpa waved his hand, dismissing her accusation. Changjng the conversation, he picked up a TV guide that sat on the end table, waving back to you and your brothers he began to explain another rule of his. 

“Now, when the mailman brings the TV guide on wensdays, sometimes the corner of the address label will curl up.” He pointed to the address label on the guide, the corner slowly thrusting itself up towards the ceiling. “You’ll be tempted to peel it off. Don’t. You’ll end up ripping the cover, and I don’t like that

He tossed the TV guide back on a different table, making his way back to the taxidermy room. He yanked the sliding doors together and they closed with a great, smack. “And stay out of here.”

Grandpa then walked away, though not before Sam stood in his pathway, excitement rising in his chest. “There’s a TV?” He asked, slightly crossing his fingers for the man to say yes. 

“No. I just like to read the TV guide. Read the guide and you don’t need the Tv.” He then walked away, leaving Sam with a disappointed look. 

“See,” you told him, walking towards a couple of boxes that were laid about the living room floor. “Now, you get to use you imagination.”

Sam pointed a finger at you, “When we go crazy, here- and we will, you’ll be the first that I kill.”

You pushed Sam out of your way with your shoulder, balancing the box on your hip. “Then be prepared for me to haunt you until the end of times, Samuel Emerson.”

A/a/n: Hello and thank you for reading the first chapter :) Now we won’t meet the boys until the next chapter, but I am debating if I should just make that chapter about you meeting them or add on. I still haven’t decided. But thank you again and the next chapter will be done as quickly as possible ;)

This is also another lost boys fic that I really enjoyed :)

‘Cause We’re Gonna Be Legends; pt. 1

Summary: Imagine wandering the Boardwalk with your friends. A group of boys catch their attention and while your friends are doing everything to catch their attention in return, they are apparently more interested in the oblivious girl of the bunch who doesn’t care to bat her eyelashes at them. You. [Part One]

GIF courtesy of @daebom + Original GIF Post

Words: 6.5K Warnings: I have no idea what this is. I wanted just a quick little scene where the boys are taking care of a sick S/O and it turned into this. Fml. Sorry for their OOC-ness.

Keep reading

Fan fic idea

I have an idea to write a fic and I need to know if people will actually read it.

Ok, so, my idea is basically a Jason Todd x reader story. BUT

The reader is a BLIND vigilante, so basically like MCUs Daredevil. Or. Another very badass Toph.

Either way, it would be like a romance story and have like all the character from WFA, from webtoon and stuff.

And like she is literally the daredevil, she is studying law in college, her closest friends is like the batboys/batgirls and she has a seeing eye dog.

(He will probably be my favorite to write)

But just let me know if I should actually write this or if anyone would be interested in it.

I also don’t know what to name this so if you do want me to write this then can you please leave a name suggestion as well.

supernatural is so funny. sometimes they'll look for God and say things like "try new mexico, I hear he's on a tortilla" "no, he's not on any flatbread" and then you get bangers like "freedom is a length of rope and God wants you to hang yourself with it".

I need Marko on me rn.