Latest Posts by the-avengers-not-the-nazis - Page 5

PLEASE!!!! I AM BEGGING @consuming-karma, FOR THIS TO BE WRITTEN. THE CHARACTER DESIGNS AND THE WAY EVERYTHING IS WRITTEN FOR THE SUMMARY, IS JUST, MWAH (chefs kiss)

BACK IN TOWN - THE MASTERLIST.

[poly!lost boys + ex!Michael x asian!ex!reader.]

content warnings: angst, pining, enemies to lovers trope, vampirism, gore, etc. (tba).

Years after the Vampire incident in Santa Carla, the Emersons decide to take the lost boys under their wings. Everything was happy for a while, until year of 92’ where Lucy had planned for a trip back down to memory lane, literally. Now, Lucy and the boys are back in Phoenix, Arizona. How will Michael handle seeing his childhood home? Better yet, his old ex? What happens when Michael’s boys gets interested as well?

page one : Home, Bittersweet Home.

let’s meet our cast, shall we?

READER.

THE BOYS:

- MICHAEL EMERSON.

- DAVID.

- DWAYNE.

- MARKO.

- PAUL.

“I’m not cut out for your creepy antics, Michael! Your world isn’t mine, and I don’t want to make it mine.”

“You can’t say that, you can’t turn back. David’s already picked for you, and honestly, I don’t want to lose you, and the boys don’t either.”

(THE LOST BOYS 1987.)

the lost boys is not my original work, the only credit I will be taking is for Reader and any non-canon headcanons I’ve implemented into the story.

Dick: A good romance starts with a good friendship!

Batsis:...And a bad romance starts with Rah-Rah Ah Ah Ah! Roma Roma-ma! Gaga, Ooh la la!

insp by that one squid game interview where they gave the actors sillay little squid hats

It's a lil weird but...... David and Dwayne having a flex off? If that makes sense to you.

I have a Head cannon that they occasionally have to prove who is stronger.

Sorry if that's weird!

They do it randomly for fun sometimes if it turns into an actual fight for dominance flexing can quickly turn to wrestling and fighting. Which just snow balls further.

Instigators one and two will egg this behavior on.

What have I stumbled upon?!?! It fits them all so well 😂

lives were changed on july 31st 1987 when joel schumacher’s the lost boys was released

I DONT KNOW WHO NEEDS TO SEE THIS BUT HERE ARE SOME LOST BOYS (1987) PFP’s

I have no idea who the artist is, if you know PLEASE tell me. BUT, LOOK HOW CUTE THEY ALL ARE 😭

Max and his unruly boys

Here’s to Philippa (Featherington) Finch, who married her first season to a man that worships the ground she walks on and did it with zero drama necessary. Bravo 👏

Bad moon rising III

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: 3.7k

Poly!Lost boys x Emerson!reader

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

A/n: This chapter will have a brief mention of SA, so this is your warning! But, don’t worry because we kick ass, literally. I also love this chapter, because it does go a bit more into the boys protectiveness and yours and theirs feelings for one another. So please in joy:)

You awoke groggily the next morning. 

Staying up late the night before at the boardwalk did not mix in well with your normal sleeping routine. Sun filtered through the blinds, the light casting a glow throughout your bedroom. You lightly stirred awake, tugging on the itchy sheets to keep last of your sleep from wandering away. 

“Y/n?” A voice called out from behind the closed door. “Sam and I’ve made breakfast, if your hungry.”

A muffled ‘ok’ surpassed your lips, the sound of your mother’s footsteps fading from your door. You reluctantly got out of bed, your pajama shirt that you may or may not have taken from Micheal’s closet rested loosely around your hips, the waist of your shirts twisted around your body from last nights sleep. 

Glancing around your room, you took in the multitude of box’s that littered the ground. Each having different labels from t-shirt and underwear all the way to cd’s and band posters. You knew that you’d have to empty the boxes at one point, and not fish through everything just to find a clean pair of socks.

You slowly walked out of your room, careful not to roll an ankle stepping over a box of shoes. The floor was cold against your bare feet, causing a soft chill to run through your body as you made your way down the stairs. 

Soft clinking of silverware and scraping plates met your ears as you rounded the stairs railing. Sam, Micheal and mom came into view, each of them sitting around the dining table, their breakfast either already eaten or halfway gone. 

Your gave them each a morning greeting, mom receiving a politer one than either of your brothers. Upon entering the kitchen, you made a quick plate, filled with plenty of eggs and bacon to keep your hunger subsided for a couple of hours. 

You returned back to the dining room, sitting next to Micheal. Mom and Sam sat on the opposite side, a single plate pulled with just bacon and a glass of orange juice sat at the head of the table. Definitely Grandpas. 

Though, where the old man currently was, is beyond you. 

As you start to eat your breakfast with your family, the gentle noise from outside passing as conversation for now. Mom let out an appealed hum, mouth stuffed with her own cooking, hand coming up to cover her mouth as she began to speak. 

“I forgot to tell you guys,” Voice slightly muffled by her hand. “I already found a job for myself.”

You slowed your eating, glancing between your brothers and mother. “Already?” You asked, lightly stabbing the yellow bit of egg. “We’ve been here less than a day, how have you got a job?”

Mom lowered her hand, smile still evident on her face. “Yes, well, last night at the boardwalk, I met a fine man who offered me a job at his store.”

“Fine man?” Micheal echoed, leaning back in his chair. “We don’t have to expect him around the house, will we?”

“No, no.” She waved off. “He is just a sweet man, who happened to notice someone in need of work.”

You shared a quick glance at Micheal, not entirely certain if the guy was just looking out for a stranger or more. Sam, on the other hand, was estatic for mom. Talking with a mouthful of his breakfast. “That’s great, mom. And, just think, when you get your first check, we can buy a TV.”

Micheal rolled his eyes at his brothers sudden accusation, you held back a smile. Remembering the conversation from yesterday about having no MTV to watch here at grandpas. 

“We can’t spend our money on entertainment, Sam. We have help pay for food and bills, we can’t just live off of grandpa forever.” She told him, taking a quick sip of her orange juice. “Besides, a video store will not pay that much on the first check.”

“Your working at a video store?” You asked, even though she had just told you the answer to your question. 

She gave a soft nod, standing up from the table with her plate and drink in hand. “Yes, unfortunately. It was the only thing that I could find in such short notice.” She then walked out of the dining room, leaving you with your brothers. 

Sam looked between you and Micheal, a sad look on his face. “My god,” he muttered, leaning back in his chair with defeat. “We’re going to be living in the streets by the end of the summer.”

You kicked him beneath the table, earning a pained noise to pass his lips. 

After breakfast, you returned back upstairs, gently closing your bedroom door behind you. Kicking an empty box out of your way as you sat down on your bed. Out of the corner of your eye, the sun bounced off of a square object, the light shining in your face. 

Turning in the direction, you eyed the cd from last night. The same one that the bleach blonde slipped into your back pocket. Reaching over, you picked up the object, twisting it around in your hand as you read the song listings for the cd. 

You pondered with the disk in hand, gently tapping it against your palm as you eyed your cd player. A pair of headphones hung on top of the device, eagerly waiting to be played. 

A tired sigh passing your lips as you opened the plastic case. You weren’t one to judge people’s music, often giving each genre a try before making a conclusion on it. But, stolen music was something that’d you’d happily judge. 

Placing the disk into the appropriate slot, you pressed play on the cd player. The music played through the headphones, the padded material fitting snug against your ears. You laid out on your bed, letting the music calm you, despite the punk metal flowing through your head.

You hadn’t seen the four boys over the past week at the boardwalk. Well, you did see them, anyone could see them. But, they were always driving away on their bikes or terrifying some tourists that got to close to them. 

You also didn’t know what to say to them, it wasn’t like you were friends with any of them. So, you just stuck to the side when they would get too close or change directions entirely, not wanting to be noticed by the leatherback motorcyclists.

But, you were noticed.

They knew when you were near, and they knew when you would hide away in a random shop when they’d passed by. To them it was hilarious, this girl that they’d barley known was doing everything in her power to keep herself hidden from them.

It wasn’t like it was something new to them, plenty of people dodged their presence when around them. Often, giving them a clear path to walk along the boardwalk. 

Though, whenever they would catch the sweet odor of your perfume, or the soft beating of your heart. Their feet would follow after you, trailing a good distance behind to not alarm you of their presence. 

And it was like they couldn’t stop when they would catch your smell in a crowd. 

It was something deep down that made them follow after you, something deep within their cold body’s that tethered them with you. They all felt it, that odd pull when one of them would spot you. But, none of them would speak out loud about it, not knowing how to ask what it was or why it was you. 

They just knew that the pull they’d fell would softly strengthen itself they closer they were to you. And a small part of them was curious of what it could mean. 

You watched as the sun lowered itself behind the crashing waves of the ocean, soft pinks and purples mixing in with the night sky before it turns black. It was always mesmerizing how the sun would move so quickly, yet slowly throughout the day. Beginning and ending just as it had started, beautifuly.

The railing from the boardwalk dug into your forearms as you leaned against it, a peaceful feeling scorching through your body at the sight before you. You knew you’d have to leave soon, you promised mom that you’d be back before dinner. 

Pulling yourself from the deck, you made your way over to the stairs leading down to the beach. Straps of your bag digging into your shoulders, as the weight of your items shifted. The only reason that you had brought the thing was because you’d wished to open your wallet a bit more tonight. 

A couple of happy’s for your family and yourself. As well as your house keys, wallet and Walkman. (For when you get bored.)

The sand inched itself into the crevices of your soles, no doubt something that mom would get on to you about if you track any kind of grime into the house. 

You could have just walked along the boardwalk, but you were growing a bit tired of the over packed people crowding around you. Too many sweaty bodies, and far too many noises. So, a nice walk along the beach would be the perfect way to end the night. 

A small fire came into view, the light casting a soft glow around a group of kids that surrounded it. You didn’t recognize them. Not that you’d recognize a whole lot of people with only being in town for a total of two weeks, but still. Loud music came from the group, shouts and laughter erupting the quiet atmosphere of the beach. 

You kept your focus away from the group, not wanting to disturb their own fun. Keeping a far away distance to not draw any attention towards yourself. Though that seems to be the opposite of tonight’s plans. 

A sharp whistle came from the group, dragging you out of your peace. 

You glanced over at the bonfire, stopping momentarily in the sand. They were a lot closer to you than the fire itself, maybe a few feet away than the couple of yards they were previously at. 

“Where you running off to on such a nice night, babe?” One of them asked, his voice slur like. The nickname didn’t roll off his tongue like Paul’s did the other night, no, instead it came off forced and disoriented. Almost like the name was just a way to try and sweet talk you. 

“Home.” You told him bluntly, taking slow but deliberant steps away from them. 

An airy chuckle came from a different guy, “What a coincidence, so are we.”

“Please don’t follow me.” You said over your shoulder, picking up your pace when you realized that they were starting to follow you. 

“Why not, you look like you could use the company.”

You didn’t give a response, instead kept your head forward, ignoring the calls that they continued to ring out. “C’mon, beautiful, this a way to treat a gentleman?”

An hand gripped your arm, yanking you back into the imbrace of a body. Two strong arms wrapped around your waist keeping you tightly in his hold. “I was fuckin’ talking to ya.” He told you, the smell of his intoxicated breath making you gag. 

He pulled you closer to the fire, dragging your body as you kicked and refused to allow him to take you to their spot. The other guys had brutish smiles on their faces, finding the situation as a pleasant form of entertainment for them.

One of the men snatched your bag off your shoulders, tossing it near the bonfire as a couple dug through your possessions. “Let me fucking go!” You shouted, arms and legs kicking out at anyone who got close. Your sudden movements caused the guys grip on you to slip, your feet finally planting firmly on the ground.

You twisted out of the guys hold, his arms still wrapped tightly around your waist. And, out of a flurry of emotions, you raised your dominant arm, reeling it back before your fist connected with his nose. Hard. 

A sharp crunch came from the man’s nose, and something warm and wet coated your knuckles as you pulled your fist back. The man let out a pained groan, his hands cupping his nose as blood dripped from between his fingers. 

“God! Fuckin’! Dammit!” He shouted, words coming out choppy and rushed as he struggled to breath properly through his nostrils. “Look what you fucking did, you bitch!”

You bit your toungue, fighting off a smug smile. Now is really not the time to play around with these guys, but, you knew it felt good to punch him. The tiny bag of dicks deserved it. “I can see.” You told him taking a small step back from the supposed leader of the group. “And it looks like a shitty nose job, if you ask me.”

“You broke my fucking nose!” He was beyond pissed, anyone with an eye could see that. He pointed a finger at you, blood dripping from the tip. “I’ll fucking kill you.”

God, this guy has a nasty mouth on him. He gets punched one time and it’s all fucking this and fucking that. His mama needs to teach himself some manners. 

You opened you mouth to tell him, ready to snatch your bag back and take off towards grandpas, when a reflective object caught your eye. Glancing over at the man’s hand you saw a knife clutched tightly in his right hand, his fist slightly shaking for how hard his grip was. 

Holy shit. 

He really is gonna kill you. 

Turning swiftly on your foot, you tried to manuver out of the outstretched hands grabbing at you. Sprinting on the sand, you felt as the tiny rocks slowed you down. Everytime you pushed off, your foot slowly sank down into the beach’s bay. 

Holy shit. 

A hand gripped your hair, tight. Your scalp burning as you get yanked back and thrown down on the ground. A yelp slipped past your lips when your upper body hits the floor, the air vacating your lungs. 

You tried to lift your body up, tried to run, tried to scream for help. But, there were suddenly hands everywhere, holding you down on your back, arms and legs pinned down as the man you’d punched leaned over you. 

“You know,” he started, twisting his knife in his palm. “It’d be a real shame for me to fuck up your face, because, well, you sure do got a pretty one.” He trailed his hand over your face, blood trailing behind as he did so. 

“Burn in fucking hell!” You shouted, putting as much strength as you could muster to try  and shove off the ones holding you down. 

A nasty sneer rested on his lips, “But such a shitty attitude, maybe I’ll cut off your tongue, you know, keep you quiet for once.”

The guy pinning down your left arm looked up at the man, slight concern bubbling across his features. “Hughie, yer not actually gonna cut ‘er, right-“

“Shut the hell up!” Hughie shouted at the man, knife pointed dangerously close to his face. “Just shut up.”

He turned back towards you, the knife dropping down to his side as glared down at you. “I ain’t gonna cut the bitch.”

You felt air enter your body, feeling slightly better about the situation now knowing he isn’t actually gonna use the knife. But, you still didn’t know what he was gonna do with you. 

“No, well just take her shitty bag, and I want just a little pay back for the nose.” Hughie brought his index and thumb close together. 

You watched with wide eyes as he walked around you, stopping at the top of your head, kicking just a little bit of sand in your face as he did so. “Fucking slut.” He muttered, before he raised his leg and the heel of his boot came down hard on your face. 

David sat on top of his motorcycle, the kickstand holding him steady as he puffed on his cigarette. The sun had set about an hour ago, the night fresh and just starting. They had plenty of time to scope out the crowd and find their next meal. 

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Paul and Marko sweet talking a group of ladies. They’d be nice for a snack, David thought. The sent of their blood flooding his senses, but, they’d need just a little more to actually fill them up. 

Dwayne leaned against the wooden railing, keeping a steady eye on those who wander too close to him and his brothers. Anyone that catches his eye would immediately steer themselves in a different direction. 

The smell of your blood drifted around the group, drawing Paul and Marko away from the group of girls and back over to their brothers. Your blood was a lot stronger than usual tonight, they noticed. It was more out in the open than what they’d usually smell around you. 

Paul was the first to notice you, a smile spreading across his face. “Hey, babe.” He drawled, watching as you came into view of the group. “Where you been lately?”

Though you didn’t stop to acknowledge them, in fact you seemed to walk faster to try and past them. It was slightly uncharacteristic of you, no snarky comment or a roll of your eyes. To say they missed it was an understatement. 

One by one, they each stepped away from their bikes, sauntering over to your fleeting form. The smell of your blood grew stronger and stronger the closer they got to you, the reminder that they need to eat picking at the back of their minds. 

Marko reached you first, gently pulling at your arm to catch your attention. “Hey, beautiful, where you been all week?” Though, you shrugged off his hand, barley giving him a glance as you tried to push through the crowd. 

He furrowed his brows, slightly confused at your demeanor. The first time you’ve met you’d snapped at him for trying to take a silly vinyl, and now you wouldn’t even spare him a second of your attention. 

Even when they’d see you out on the boardwalk, you’d always glance up at them, meeting at least one of their eyes before scurrying in a different direction. 

He quickly glanced at the others, silently asking them what to do. 

David brushed by his brother, understanding him without either having to open their mouths. He took long purposeful strides, the sounds of the others following right behind floated up to his ears. In no time, David was at your side. Gloved fingers wrapping around your forearm, as he spun you around to face them. 

A witty comment danced on the edge of his tongue, the sudden impulse to hear a snarky remark fall from your lips egged him on. Though, what he sa made his thoughts stand still. 

Bruises were found all around your face. A few rested along your jawline and cheekbones, but, the biggest of them all was the one on your right eye. The skin slightly puffed around the eyeball, making it hard to see clearly from that side. 

A dark red was slowly but steadily seeping from your bottom lip, the sticky liquid had had found its way to the collar of your shirt. The fabric had caused the blood to spread across the top. 

That explains the smell of blood. 

Tears welled up in your eyes, threatening to spill over onto your cheeks. Your breaths became labored, short intakes and outtakes, eyes darting past the four men to your surroundings. 

David placed both hands on your face, the feeling of his gloved fingers against your skin oddly calmed you. You placed your own hands against his wrist gently trying to tug them away, though, his grip didn’t seem to loosen. 

“Let me go.” You said in a hoarse voice, the sound of it made an odd feeling stir in the pit of the boys stomachs. 

You hadn’t even realized that the rest of the boys had surrounded the two of you. Each eyeing the small marks that littered across your face with hidden emotion. 

Paul had reached forward grasping your hand in his, eyes trailing across the hills of your knuckles. A faint coat of blood was slowly drying itself up, blood that wasn’t your own. The blonde gently showed your hand to the others, discreetly eyeing each of them, a silent conversation threading itself through the air. 

A weak sniffle sounded from you, mindlessly dragging their thoughts back to the fact that you were here right infront of them. “Can I please just go home?” You asked, voice wavering with emotion. 

One by one they each gave a chorus of, ‘of course’ or just a simple nod. Paul released your hand, not before wiping a small trail of blood onto the pad of his finger. Keeping the scent with them as you left. 

David pulled his hands away from your face, the cold touch lingering on your warm skin. They watched as you pushed through the crowd, hand gently pressing against someone’s lower back as you pass by them. An eerie tick crawled its way to the back of David’s mind, something unsettling and terrifying. 

And it didn’t seem to mix well with the need to feed. 

David glanced over at Dwayne, giving him a quick nod. The brunette mirrored his brother, neither having to open they’re mouth before he distantly trailed after you. Getting lost in the crowd just as you had. 

Now just the three blondes were left in the boardwalk. Paul was softly bouncing on his feet unpatiently awaiting for David’s orders. Marko stood beside his brothers, fingers twitching at the sudden need to sink his fists and fangs into someone. 

The faint smell of the assholes blood filtered through their noses, a soft trail leading through the crowds. Without glancing back at the terror twins, David signaled towards the bikes. The three of them straddles their own Motorcycles, Dwayne’s would just have to stay at the boardwalk until they get back. 

They revved their engines, the loud noise drawing attention of nearby locals. Though, tonight, the people’s attention was the last thing that they were trying to capture. 

“Boys,” David spoke over the rumble of the bikes. “Let’s eat.”

A/a/n: Ok, so, if anyone of confused by the ending, the boys went out to basically kill the surfer nazis. And, Dwayne went to make sure you got home safe before joining his brothers. Also, I felt like the ending was a bit rushed, because I haven’t posted in like a week or something. But, let me tell you that this chapter has been 90% done the whole time. I was just lazy to finish the other 10%. But, let me know what you guys think ;)

@mrstargayen09

The urge to count rice is strong

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".

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

A MASSIVE THE LOST BOYS MEME POST

Paul during Michael's little blood-drunk escapades

Michael, having no survival skills

Star, watching Michael get distracted by all of the hot vampires

Lucy, having shit taste in men (we love her tho she's just a girl)

Max, creeping up on the unsuspecting single mothers of Santa Carla

The Widow Johnson sensing other vamps on her turf

Paul attempting to be a badass with his 🤙 and 👌

Michael and David fighting very Heteronormitavely

Max watching security footage of the boys trying to steal The Princess Bride from his store

Nanook, searching for vampires to fucking destroy

Bad moon rising II

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: 2.9k

Poly!lost boys x Emerson!reader

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

A/n: I am gonna be 100% honest with all of yall, I have cried, yelled at myself, and threaten to throw my phone across the room. Because I had no idea how to get the reader and the boys to meet. So, this honestly will probably suck, but I have tried my hardest. Spent too many hours deleting and rewriting for this to be bad. So please enjoy if can

The board walk was unlike anything you’ve ever seen before. It was packed full of bustling people, everyone wanting to go through all the rides, shops and games that they had on display. 

Lights came from all around, aluminating your way through the crowd as you tried to decide what to do first on the boardwalk. Screams and laughter sounded from the rollar coaster ride, the bumps and spins tempted you, but you knew that you’d need to ease your way into everything. 

This would be the moment when you’d wish that Sam or Micheal had come with you, they would try to do everything at once. But, unfortunately, right as you three had arrived; the boys had caught wind of a concert, ditching you to go watch Timmy Cappello perform. 

Treacherous dicks. You called them, wishing that at least one of them would have stuck with you as you ventured where you’d be spending the remainder of your summer. 

You wiped your palms against the fabric of your shorts, the heat of the night air causing a faint sheen of sweat to coat your body. After you’d finished unpacking all the necessities from the car, you’d taken a quick shower and changed for a night out on the board walk.

And thankfully so, the gentle breeze against your bare legs cooled you down enough for you to actually enjoy the night out. 

Chimming bells suddenly grasped your attention, facing the noise, you saw a small shop that was isolated from the others. One of the stores windows was cracked, a piece of cardboard covered the inside to prevent the glass from falling out. 

It was a music shop. 

You remembered when your dad would take you as a kid, letting you pick out cassette tapes, and vinyl records for your room. The old record player would run all day from how many times you would listen to Elvis, Buck Owen’s, and The mamás & the papas. 

It was such a shame that you had to sell the record player and half of your vinyl collection to help out after the divorce. With such little money, you had to make sacrifices for your family. No matter how much you regretted it afterwards.

You glanced up at the sign above the door, a wooden guitar with the words Soundscape etched into the body, swayed against the gentle breeze.  A young couple walked out of the store, hand in hand, a paper bag with their purchase held tightly as they ambled away. 

Reaching into your pocket, you felt around for your wallet. The small leather bound material felt weighted as you pulled it out, the sudden urge to spend your money caused you to open the door of the shop. 

The bell rang above you, and a quick greeting sounded from the cashier. You politely greeted him back before wandering throughout the store. 

It was decently clean, a few stray cd’s littered the ground and a couple display posters were a bit too crooked. But, overall, it was perfect for you. 

You trailed your fingers over a couple of vinyls, picking up a few before putting them back in place. Not really looking for anything specific at the moment, you just tried to find something that would catch your eye. 

Stopping infront of the cassette tapes, you let yourself go through each row, the soft clicking as the cassettes bumped against each other drifted up towards your ears. That and the sound of Jeff Lynne’s voice singing Don’t bring me down, was the only noise that filtered throughout the store. 

Your finger graced an Elvis cassette, the image of him and his infamous guitar sat in the clear case. Picking up the tape, you flipped it over reading the listed songs that went with each side. It had a couple good ones; like Blue Suede Shoes, All Shook Up, Return To Sender, Burning Love and of course some others. 

It was his top greatest hits from each album. 

You tapped the plastic against your palm, debating if you should spend the money just to add to your Elvis collection. You actually had a lot of collections that you needed to complete, but, with this specific artist you only had small handful left to find. 

Kinda like Sam’s Batman comics that he’s been trying to find at every book store that you’d passed on the way down here. 

The bell suddenly rang once more, dragging your attention away from the shelf infront of you. A group of men walked in, each leather clad and mullet wearing. The smell of smoke drifted off of them, wafting through the store. It made you scrunch your nose in disgust. 

“Welcome to the SoundScape,” The Cashier told them, the rehearsed words falling easily out of his mouth. “If you need any help, please let me know.”

None of the guys acknowledged the worker, or, they did though they just didn’t pay him any mind. You watched as they each dispersed from one another, going to different displays around the store. Picking up random items before putting them back where they originally were. 

One of the guys walked down the same row you were on, his eyes trailing over the selection of cassettes. You returned your gaze back to your own tape, not wanting to be caught staring at the guy like a creep. 

Eyeing the rack infront of you, wondering if you should buy the Elvis tape or possibly another. If you’d had enough money on you. You kept your eye on a Boney M. cassette, the item practically calling your name. You reached forward fingers less than an inch away from the plastic when a sudden commotion caused you to freeze. 

BAM!

Your head instantly shot up, the sudden noise disturbing the once peaceful silence. It came from a guy in the leathered group, the small one with curly hair, he stood over a fallen display of cd’s. His hands held up in the air, a small smug grin tugging on his lips as he turned to the stores worker. 

“I’m sorry, man.” He told him, his apologie laced with sarcasm. “It just started falling.”

The cashier let out a deep sigh, his smile turning from genuine to forced as he eyed the scattered items. “It’s alright, accidents happen.”

You watched as the curly guy bent down and picked up the stand, purposely hitting the one right beside it as he did so. He let out another fake apology before the worker shooed him away, picking up everything himself before curly messed up the entire store. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw the movement of the blond beside you shove something in his pocket. You turned you head slightly, to get a better view, and you watched as he took another cassette from the shelf and put it on the inside of his jacket. 

You glanced between him and the other three guys that he came in with, noticing that with the worker busy they were taking items off of their display and stuffing them deep into their clothes. Hell, the curly guy was trying to fit a whole vinyl record in the front of his shirt. A very prominent square outlined for everyone to see. 

It was a diversion, knocking over enough stuff for the counter guy to get pissed and pick everything up himself. It was clever, but still wrong. 

With your attention kept on the tapes infront of you, you opened your mouth. Voice low enough so that only the blonde next to you could hear. “You shouldn’t do that.”

The man glanced up at you, not at all ashamed of what he was doing. “What’s that?”

“You shouldn’t steal.”

He let out a quiet laugh, leaning his upper body against the shelf. “Oh, really?” He asked, voice drawing out into a tease. “Wanna tell me why I shouldn’t, babe?”

You gestured to the store around you, eyes meeting his. “Because, its wrong. And, just because you and your friends can’t see that, doesn’t mean that it’s right.”

“Well, me and my friends seem to think it pretty damn fun.” He told you, pushing off the shelf as he took a few small steps towards you. “So, your reasoning is pretty much useless in this case.”

The guy stood a mere foot away from you, his eyes trailing across your face. His smile growing ever so slightly as he took you in. “So, watcha gonna do about it?” He asked, voice soft and teasing as he held a tape infront of you. 

“Put it back.”

“Why? There is no fun in doing the right thing.” He waved the item in your face. “Is there, babe?”

You snatched the cassette from his grasp, eyes not once leaving his as you placed it randomly on the shelf. “Put ‘em all back.” You scolded, voice rising ever so slightly. “It’s shitty and disrespectful for the ones that try to make a living working in places like this.”

He glanced over the top rack, eyeing the worker with disinterest. “Yeah, but, it’s also disrespectful to have to work at a place like this.” He turned back to you. “So, if he gets fired then he’ll come and thank us.”

You opened your mouth to retaliate, wanting to tell him how much his point didn’t make since. When you notice how quiet the store had gotten, the music coming from the speakers and the worker picking up the cds were the only thing. Glancing around you couldn’t see the guys friends, all of them gone from where they originally were. 

“Yeah, Paul, put it back.” A voiced suddenly called from beside you, arm slinging itself across your shoulder. 

Peering beside you, you saw the curly haired guy, his eyes dancing between both you and Paul. You didn’t even hear him come up behind you, in fact you didn’t even know that he had moved from where he was across the store. 

You pushed off his arm, the feeling of his body pressed up against your own made your face heat up. Looking back at Paul, you noticed how his body seemed to get more ecstatic, smile forming into a friendly tease. “Oh, yeah? Why don’t you put up that vinyl of yours.” He tapped against the cardboard beneath the fabric. 

Curly swatted his hand away, pulling the vinyl from beneath his shirt and dropping it on the floor. You eyed the disc on the ground, annoyance seeping into your chest at the disregard of store. 

“Pick it up.” You told the smaller one, side stepping away from them both to give yourself some room. 

He tsked, eyes roaming your body up and down. “Well, aren’t you a bossy one.”

“I wouldn’t be bossy if you’d stop fucking-“

“Watch your mouth.” A different voice spoke up, stopping you from finishing your sentence. You glanced over at the voice, taking in his long overcoat and bleach blonde hair. “It’s not nice to treat strangers that way.”

You furrowed you eyebrows, “If your saying I’m being rude, than that’s really the last thing I care about right now.”

A few small snickers came from around you, causing you to look around at each men that surrounded you. The two blondes stood the closest to you, giving you just a foot of breathing room. Then there were the the bleach blonde and brunette. They stood the furthest from you, but their stares alone were enough to make you feel like they were everywhere at once. 

Your body felt like it was on fire underneath their gazes, that and your dignity slowly burning away as realized how much of a fool you must look like right now.  You quickly crouched down, picking up the vinyl and gently setting it on the shelf. Not really caring that it’s not where it belongs right now. 

Someone cleared their throat. You and the guys turned your attention towards the worker, who stood behind the counter with a wet rag. “We’re closing.” He told them, nodding toward the door with little patience. “If your gonna buy something, now is the time.”

You gave him a quick ‘ok’, forced smile gracing your features as you turned to face the men. You eyed them wearyingly, knowing that they could just easily walk out of here without doing at all what you’ve been asking. 

A soft chuckle came from the bleach blonde, a smug smirk playing on his lips as he placed a hand on Paul’s shoulder. “C’mon, Paul.” He said, turning to walk out of the store. “Put ‘em back, we got places to be.” 

You watched as he pulled out a cd, the front of the case covered in a band called Scorpion. He set it down on the shelf, his eyes not once leaving your own. “We’ll see you around.” He muttered, voice low and mesmerizing to hear as he spoke.

It was almost like a fly getting caught in honey. Alluring and sticky, but, it’s just a trap for the prey. 

You didn’t acknowledge his words, instead you just watched as he walked out, the others slowly trailing after him. The brunette hadn’t muttered a single word since entering the store, and apparently didn’t feel the need to as he stepped outside. 

Curly slowly wandered towards the door, turning swiftly to wave his fingers at you before disappearing behind the glass. A simple ‘Have a nice night’ spilling from his lips as he did so. Paul then turned to walked out, his arm resting across your shoulder slide off. Hand coming up to pinch your nose. “Yeah, we’ll be seeing ya around.” He told you, voice indicating that it wasn’t a suggestion, but more of a promise. 

Swatting his hand away from your face, you watched as he chuckled, walking away as he went to join his friends. Leaving you all alone in the isle, with nothing but your Elvis tape and flustered face. 

Engines revved outside as you walked up to the cashier, the sound of the fading bikes meeting your ears as you tossed the cassette on the counter. The worker rang you up, placed your item in a paper bag and thanked you for your purchase. You quietly wished him good night, before turning on your heal and walking outside. 

You were quickly met with the warm night air, the loud noises coming from the boardwalk surrounded you once more. You held on tightly to the paper bag, the cassette softly rattling inside as you quickly walked away from the Soundscape. 

You were still flustered from your interaction with the four boys. The feeling of their bodies pressed up against your own made the night heat all the more unbearable. What if I would have just left them alone? You thought, swerving through a group of people that waited patiently for the carousel. 

They still would have taken from the shop, and that guy would’ve probably lost his job from all the items missing. But, you wouldn’t have lost some of your dignity whilst doing so. 

A sigh left your lips, unoccupied hand going into your jacket pocket. Though instead of the feeling of the scratchy fabric, your fingers graced against a peice of cold plastic. You stopped walking, standing by your lonesome in the middle of the boardwalk as you pulled out whatever rested in your pocket. 

It was a Scorpion cd. The same one that you saw the bleach blonde pull from his coat. You hadn’t even felt him slip the item in your pocket, was it when you were getting on to him or when he was leaving? Was he even the one that slipped it in?

Stupid prick, you thought. Stuffing the disk into the paper bag with your Elvis one, there was no sense in returning it now. The shop was already closing up and how would you even explain that to the poor worker. 

You shook your head, the events of the night tiring you out. 

From a distance you could see both Sam and Micheal standing in the middle of the boardwalk, their attention caught on a girl and little boy. You made your way over to your brothers, the paper bag swaying in your hand as your feet picked up. 

Sam greeted you when you came near, his long over coat brushing against his shoes. “He’s been following her since the concert.” He told you, gesturing with his hand towards the pretty girl. 

“Mmh, hey, peeping Tom.” You tugged on Micheal sleeve, trying to pull him away. “I’m ready to go home.”

He didn’t acknowledge you, his eyes staring longingly at the back of the girls head. You pulled once more at his arm, barely getting him to move when the sudden loud noise of multiple vehicles rushed on the boardwalk. Glancing towards the disturbance, you watched as four familiar bodies stopped infront of the girl and boy. 

They each revved their engines, purposely scaring away anyone that too close. You watched as the little boy made his way over to one of the motorcycles, the brunette pulling him up to sit behind him. 

The girl placed her arm across the bleach blondes chest, hosting herself onto the back of the motorcycle. “C’mon, man, she played you.” Sam told his brother, pulling him away from his rooted spot on the deck. You stayed put for a second, slowly trailing after your brothers as the engines of the bikes faded from earshot. 

Your mind going to when exactly you’d be seeing them again. 

A/a/n: Like I said, this took so long to figure out how exactly the reader and the boys would meet each other. So, I honestly would understand if y'all don’t like this, but, trust me the other chapters are going to be a whole lot better.

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 ;)

ℭ𝔯𝔶 𝔏𝔦𝔱𝔱𝔩𝔢 𝔖𝔦𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯; III

{poly!lost boys x fem!reader}

♱ 𝔯𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤: explicit

♱ 𝔰𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: Michael's sudden change is unwelcome in the Emerson household. After an apparent prank that scares you and your brothers, you take matters into your own hands and confront David's gang head on.

♱ 𝔴𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: emerson!reader, fem!reader, reader is 18-19 (middle child), reader wears glasses, foul language, sibling dynamics, mentions of divorce, stuck-up?reader (she's prissy at times), teasing, temptation at its finest, mentions of stalking, flirting????? at the music store???? get your act together girl,

♱ 𝔞/𝔫: there are a few new scenes in this chapter because I wanted the reader to have more interaction with the boys before giving in. Side note, but I hate when I find a good song and it's released after '87, because it would be perfect for this series. So, the unofficial song for this chapter is Give In to Me by Michael Jackson. Also, if this were a movie, Runaway would start playing as soon as the reader storms out of the house to confront the boys on the boardwalk. OG word count: 2432, revamped word count: 4250

[1] [2] ... [4] ... [8] [9]

Michael is acting weird.

Okay. To be fair, your brother is always weird, but this is different. He's mean. He sleeps all day and wakes up at sunset, then hops on his bike and drives off to God knows where.

At first, you thought he was avoiding Mom after the boardwalk incident. Pissed was not an accurate rage descriptor for how upset she had been when she learned what he did. At first, you defended Michael. You did tell him it would be okay. But when he started acting like an ass, you became less sympathetic.

The night after that, David's gang came to the house. They didn't come inside—but they did tear up the driveway. They revved their engines, jeering Michael's name, goading him to go outside. 

Mom had caught Mike on his way out and encouraged him to bring them in.

"They might like a nice, home cooked meal." she said, peering at them through the curtains.

"Maybe next time," was his reply.

There was no next time. 

Another notable incident occurred when Sam forgot to untie Nanook and bring him inside. 

You chased Michael to the front door, fuming. "What? You're too cool to let the dog in in front of your friends?"

"He's not my dog," said Michael.

"But Mom asked you to do this."

"I don't have to do everything she says. Neither do you, you're an adult."

"And you're being an asshole."

Michael stepped outside, and, of course, David's gang was waiting. 

Michael rolled his eyes, "Why can't you get the dog, four-eyes?"

"Because you're already outside!"

Michael narrowed his eyes like he gained the power to see through your bullshit and laughed cruelly: "You're scared of them."

And, for the first time that night, you spared a glance behind him toward the boys. They said nothing, but you're sure they heard every word, considering they watched your squabble unfold like a soap opera. 

For the record, you're not scared of them. 

You're annoyed. Disgusted. (A little scared of how they make you feel, but that's neither here nor there.) 

And you could tell Mike this, but instead you said, "Oh, fuck off." before storming into the lawn. 

Nanook, who had been barking at the boys, calmed when you approached; however, you were too distracted to give the dog more than a head-pat. You were conscious of your every movement as soon as you stepped outside—your walk, the sway of your hips, your posture, hell, even your clothes. You liked your clothes, but you almost resented how dowdy they were. Why hadn't you worn something more revealing? You usually hate having people leer at your body but with these guys ...

Michael said something to them, and they laughed. It could have been nothing, but you swore they were talking about you, so you rushed inside and didn't look back. 

After that, you did everything you could to avoid seeing them when they came around. 

You lie and say these weird feelings began after that dream, but you know that's not true. Those boys have been burrowing in your brain since the beginning. The sound of their bikes roaring up the driveway makes your heart skip a beat. 

Sometimes—and you're reluctant to admit this—but sometimes you place yourself where they can see you. The upstairs window, the garage, the doorway—places far enough that they can't call out to you but close enough for them to look. 

It's stupid. You don't understand why you do it. These guys are strange and probably dangerous. You shouldn't want anything to do with them.

But that doesn't stop you.

Weirdly, you like being watched. It's like being under a microscope, but you've put yourself on the slide and control the outcome. A shrink would tell you that you're acting out because of your parents' divorce. That's the savory answer, so you refuse to believe there's another reason. 

A bird keeps leaving you gifts on your windowsill.

You haven't seen the bird in action, but you know it has to be one. It leaves you items at night. Random things.

The first one you find is a shell. It's beautiful—one of those shells you can't find on the beach, only in tourist shops. It's as big as your palm and bone-white. You assume the bird had placed it there after deciding it was unfit for its nest, so you brought it inside.

Two fluffy yellow dandelions were placed in the same spot the next day. The day after that, a flat stone with a hole in the center. Then, a feather.

On and on the little gifts came. You're not sure what you did to befriend this bird, but you're grateful. In the midst of so much turmoil with Mike, David, and Mom, the gifts never fail to make you smile.

"Honey?"

"Yeah, Mom?"

She quietly thanks the customer for coming and passes the plastic bag across the counter. When they're gone, she turns to you again. 

"Why don't you grab a bite to eat?"

"I'm not hungry."

"Oh, please!" Mom shakes her head, giving you that knowing smile. "You've been with me all day. Go and get yourself something to eat. Better yet, stretch your legs."

You flash your 'new' (secondhand) paperback at her. "I already did."

She says your name in warning, but there's no bite to it. You know she's just looking out for you. With a sigh, you tuck the book into your bag and kiss her cheek goodbye.

If this was any other day, you wouldn't have bothered to come with your mom to work, but Max had called and asked if she could work a double because Maria was sick, meaning she would be here until dark. You know she's a big girl and grew up on the mean streets of Santa Carla without you, but today was also her and dad's wedding anniversary, and well...

Mom won't admit it, but you know she's struggling. It's the big reason she took the extra shift; it helps her not think about her failed marriage.

The door swings open, and you barely glimpse who is in your periphery before you swear. 

"Shit."

"What is it, honey?" She greets the new group with a big smile. "Hello! If you have any questions, don't hesitate to ask ..." She pauses. Squints her eyes, looking, really looking, at the group. "Have we met before?"

"We're frequent flyers," says an all-too familiar voice.

David.

"Oh, alright," Mom cheers.

"Bye," you mutter. You turn fast and nearly collide with Marko, but you dodge at the last second. "Excuse me."

You exit the store and thrust yourself into the night crowd. Of course, the one night they take off from terrorizing Michael, they come after you. 

Actually—you glance at the nearest clock—it's too early for them to be at Grandpa's house. (Yes, you have their schedule memorized. No, that's not weird.)

And, no, you don't have an inflated sense of self-importance because one glance over your shoulder told you the four of them left the video store as soon as they came in. You don't know if they're following you or if this is their childish idea of a prank, but you refuse to find out.

You duck into the nearest store before they see you—a music shop. The walls are lined with albums, cassettes, and CDs. Band posters cover what little space is left; somewhere in the corner, a rock song wafts from its boombox. 

You don't frequent music shops; you might if you're with Michael or Sammy, but most of your cassettes are inherited from Mom. Still, you wander toward the folk-rock section and figure you have a few moments to kill before you seek out food. 

But good things never last.

The door opens, and you don't have to look this time to know. 

"So, you're stalking me now?" you ask.

Paul snatches the tape from your hand. "Midnight Voyage? C'mon, girl, you gotta get with the times."

You grab it back. "I like the Mamas and the Papas."

"That song's as old as you."

You cross your arms. "I thought you, of all people, understood good music doesn't have an expiration date?"

Marko, Dwayne, and David snicker, and Paul has the decency to look sheepish. You rest your hip against the display and raise your chin.

"What do you guys want?"

"We're here to look at music," says David.

"Uh-huh. Videos, too?"

He challenges you with a sarcastic look. "It's Friday night."

"Whatever."

You snake around them and move to a different display, but they follow. 

"You have to like some rock," Paul tries again.

You fight a smile. He's ... almost charming. "I didn't say I didn't."

Marko joins in, "Who?"

You flip through the singles, not paying them any mind as they throw out different band names.

Aerosmith, Bon Jovi, Depeche Mode, Van Halen - tell me you like Van Halen, baby?

You find what you're looking for and flash it to the boys with a grin. "Iggy Pop, The Passenger."

Marko frowns, but it's more appreciative than judgemental.

Dwayne nods in agreement. "Not bad."

Your answer pacifies Paul, but he's not satisfied. "We need to find you some music that you can dance to, baby."

"I don't dance," you say. "Especially in front of other people."

"Are you always this serious?" David asks. 

For some reason, that hits you where it hurts. You glare at him, dropping the single back in its slot. "Do you always stick your nose into other people's business?"

David has the audacity to smirk. "It's just an observation, princess."

You scoff and try to shoulder past him, but David is fast. He catches your bicep. His grip is barely there, but it stops you in your tracks. You hold your breath, all too aware that you're sandwiched between him and Dwayne. 

"If you keep running off like this, you're gonna make us think you don't like us," David teases.

"I don't," you lie. 

He cocks his head. "You sure?"

You swear he can see through you, but you're unwilling to give in. Not yet.

You step closer, looking him dead in the eye. "I've never been more certain."

Jerking away, you make a b-line for the door. David can't let you have the last word, though. 

"Tell Michael we'll see him later," he calls out.

You shove the door open and shout back, "Bite me!"

You're in the kitchen helping Mom with dinner when Michael stomps down the stairs, sunglasses tucked in the neck of his t-shirt.

Mom rushes to meet him. (Even she's aware she only has a finite amount of time before she loses him again.)

"Michael, do you want to take the night off and have dinner with your family?" She reaches for him, but Michael keeps walking. "We haven't eaten together in a while. It would be nice."

He snorts. "Yeah, right."

Michael opens the door without another word, and the roaring of motorcycle engines fills the house.

Mom shrivels the tiniest bit. Had you not been watching her, you wouldn't have noticed, but you did, and it pisses you off.

You sit the bowl down a little too hard and chase after him.

"Michael." He ignores you. "Michael!" You latch onto his stupid leather jacket and yank him back."Look, I don't know what's gotten into you, but it doesn't give you the right to be an ass to Mom."

He smiles, "But I can to you, right?"

Michael tries to walk away, but you hold firm.

"Why are you acting like this?"

"Listen." Michael faces you head-on. "Unlike you, I've got friends waiting for me. So, why don't you run back inside, little sister? Hm?"

Tears burn the back of your eyes, but your anger burns brighter. You release him with a push.

"Well, at least I'm not pretending to be something I'm not."

Michael frowns. For a moment, you think your words hit their mark, and you see the faintest glimmer of the old Michael in his eyes. He opens his mouth to speak.

"Michael!"

"C'mon, Michael!"

"Mikey boy!"

You flinch as they rev their bikes. It works its charm because all traces of remorse are gone from Michael's face.

He looks at you coldly. "I gotta go."

"Michael, you're making a mistake," you say.

He rolls his eyes. "Don't wait up."

"Hey, baby!" Paul shouts. "Don't you wanna come party with us?!"

You flip them off, and they erupt into a chorus of laughter.

You toss the phone onto Michael's chest, startling him from his mid-day nap.

"... What the hell?"

"Mom's on the phone. She wants to talk to you."

Michael cracks his eyes open, wincing. "What time is it?"

"Two o'clock. You slept all day. Again." You don't even try to mask your rage. If he's going to be a jerk, you'll give it right back.

Michael motions for the sunglasses on his bedside table. "Hand me those, will you?"

You scoff but throw them at him, too. "You need sunglasses to talk on the phone? Are you high?"

"Fuck off," he mutters, and picks up the phone. "Hi, Mom..."

You faintly hear her voice drifting from the receiver. "Michael are you still in bed?"

"No. I'm up."

"Can you do me a favor this evening? Will you stay home with Sam tonight? I'm meeting Max for dinner."

"I watch him all the time, Mom," he says unsympathetically. "The only time I have for myself is the evening." He locks eyes with you from behind his sunglasses. "Can't you have her watch him? Or Grandpa? They stay home all the time, anyway."

"I want you to do this," Mom says. "You come home late, sleep all day—Sammy's always alone."

"No, he's not!"

"Michael, please! Your sister should not have to do everything all the time. Now, you always do whatever you want, and I don't stop you ... tonight, I want to do what I want for a change. Do you know how long it's been since someone has asked me out to dinner?"

Michael works his jaw and says nothing.

"Please, Michael?"

He presses his lips into a thin line. "Okay. Fine. I'll watch Sammy."

He hangs up with a groan, rubbing his eyes. You tsk, yanking the phone off his chest. 

"I guess it sucks to be you," you say.

"Get out of my room," Michael grumbles, drifting back to sleep. 

You leave, but you don't close the door. Sometimes, being petty is better than a middle finger.

Grandpa strolls into the kitchen wearing a khaki-colored jacket and a loud bowtie. He has a pep in his step and another one of his furry creations tucked under his arm. 

"Look at you, Gramps!" you coo. "Lookin' all spiffy. What's the occasion?"

"Can't an old fart like me dress up for fun?" He playfully adjusts his bowtie, and his eyes twinkle with mischief. "Anything in here that might pass for aftershave?"

Sammy hops out of his chair and plucks a bottle off the windowsill. "How about this Windex, Grandpa?"

"Ah!" The old man gratefully accepts the bottle, squirts some in his hands, and pats it on his cheeks. Sam exchanges a knowing look with you. "Thanks."

Unfortunately, Michael chooses this time to come in. (And he's still wearing those stupid sunglasses.) He appraises Grandpa, his mouth twisting cruelly. "Big date, Grandpa?"

Grandpa wiggles his eyebrows, smiling slyly. "Just dropping off some of my handiwork to the 'Widow' Johnson."

He holds up a taxidermy dog. Its beady marble eyes stare into your soul. You repress a shudder. Stuffed animals (the kind that used to be alive) aren't the way to your heart, but if this woman likes it, who are you to judge?

You pat him on the back. "Good for you, Grandpa."

Michael peers over the rim of his sunglasses. "Oh, yeah? What did you stuff for her? Mr. Johnson?"

Grandpa's smile falters, then fades away altogether. He grips the stuffed dog a little tighter. "I'll see you kids later."

As soon as he's out of sight, you smack the back of Michael's head.

"Hey!"

But Sammy's on your side. "That wasn't funny, Michael."

Grandpa honks his horn, and an off-key version of La Cucaracha plays as he peels out of the driveway. Sam resumes his task: dinner duty.

"I'm making you a sandwitch," your little brother grumbles.

"Don't bother."

Michael moves, and you catch sight of something shiny. There's a dangly chain piercing his earlobe, and you know for a fact that it wasn't there last night. You wrinkle your nose. "Lose the earring, Michael, it's not happening."

He crosses his arms. "Piss off."

Sam's eyebrows shoot all the way up. "Wow—you have a great personality, Mike! You should open your own charm school."

Michael starts to go in on Sammy, ready, aching, to deliver his retort when the house shakes. A harsh, howling wind rips through the windows. The curtains flap like frantic bird wings; the ground shakes. Outside, motorcycles roar up the driveway and circle the house. Headlights burn through the windows so bright that it's like sunrise. 

You grip the table to keep from falling over. Dishes and cutlery fall from their cabinets and smash into the floor, shattering into hundreds of pieces. 

"What the hell is going on?!" You can hardly hear your own voice over the noise.

From outside, you hear their voices, shouting, clamoring over one another, melding into a horrific symphony of Michael, Michael, Michael!

Steadily, the noise grows louder. You know it's impossible, but you swear the motorcycles are climbing the walls. 

Michael rushes to the front door, and Sam is hot on his heels.

"Don't open it!" Sam cries.

Michael! Michael! Michael!

Michael throws the front door open, and ... it stops. 

Everything stops.

All that remains is a faint breeze rustling through the trees and the dainty jingle of wind chimes. 

You grab Sam's hand to ground yourself, and he squeezes back, utterly petrified. 

No one is outside. 

You exchange a look with Sam. "That was real, right?"

He nods, but he doesn't look sure.

You trust your judgment, and Sammy's for that matter, but as you peer into the night, you can't help but doubt yourself.

Was it a shared hallucination? An earthquake? But what were those voices?

Grimly, you realize there's only one answer, and it wasn't a natural phenomenon. You know who's behind it. 

Michael shuts the door and locks it, resting his back against it like he alone could prevent them from coming in.

You clench your jaw and storm up to Michael, poking his chest. "Look—I don't know what kind of game you and your friends are trying to play, but it's not funny."

Michael dares to look offended. "I didn't do this."

"The hell you didn't!" Rage boils your blood, and you see red. "I have had it, Michael. This is the last straw."

You shove past him and throw open the door. The night is calm, but you are not. You've played the passive role for too long. No. Fucking. More. 

Those four morons could mess with you all they wanted, but not your family. Not their home. 

Your brothers call after you, but it's Sammy who asks, "Where are you going?!"

"Out!"

Your anger leads you to the boardwalk.

People laugh, their conversations overlapping until it's nothing but white noise buzzing in your ears. Overhead, Runaway by Bon Jovi crackles through the boardwalk's sound system, but the music is distorted as if filtered through a tunnel.

You find David and his gang easily, almost like you have a homing beacon guiding you straight to them. You don't overthink it. Really, you don't think about it at all. All you know is that you're past your limit for bullshit, and tonight, you'll make it stop one way or another.

Paul is the first one to notice you. He greets you with a cocky grin. "Hey, baby—"

You punch Paul in his stupid, pretty face. It wasn't hard—and the odds are, he's taken worse—but sheer surprise knocks him off his feet into Dwayne. 

You only realize what you did when the pain kicks in.

"Sunova—!" You bite back a scream, cradling your fist against your chest. You wish someone would have warned you: punching hurts.

"What is with you Emerson's and punching without provocation?" muses David.

You glare, filling it with as much hate as you can muster. David isn't affected in the least. In fact, he's amused. He grins like he's watching a newborn puppy learn to snarl. He pushes off the railing and invades your personal space.

"Let me see your hand." David reaches for it, but you step back.

"Don't touch me," you snap.

The boys laugh.

Marko throws his arm over your shoulder and nuzzles your hair. "Baby's got teeth, huh?"

You try to shrug him off, but he hangs on. "Stay away from Michael." They murmur his name like it's a private joke. It makes you angrier. "He's a good guy, and he doesn't deserve to be dragged down by a group of dirty degenerates like you."

David bends at the waist so he's eye-level with you. "Did big brother send you here?"

"No," you say, "I came myself."

"So you can go down on dirty degenerates like us?"

"To get you to fuck off," you sneer.

You shove David back for good measure, but he captures your wrist—your injured hand—without blinking an eye. 

Gingerly, he looks it over, paying close attention to your knuckles. His leather gloves are soft and worn. They must be thick, too, because you can't feel his body heat through them.

What the fuck. No, you're not thinking about that.

He grazes his thumb over the hills and valleys of your knuckles; he turns your hand over, coaxing you to spread your fingers. 

"It's not broken," David says. "You're lucky."

… Huh?

He manipulates your hand into a fist again. "Next time, don't tuck your thumb under your fingers, or you will break it. See?"

"Stop it," you stammer.

"Stop what?"

"Being—" Nice "—weird!"

David releases your hand, and you bring it back to your chest. 

"I think you better apologize to Paul," David continues. "You hurt him real bad, and, well, we don't want him to pout all night, right?"

You glance at Paul, who is indeed pouting theatrically. "Can you kiss it better?" He taps his cheek.

You sneer. "Look—just leave Michael and my family alone. That shit you pulled tonight was not cool, and Mike hasn't been acting like himself since you came along, so I know you're the cause. So, back off, okay?"

David smiles. "Okay."

You pause. Then blink. You wait for the punchline, another witty remark that David has locked and loaded, but it never comes.

"Wait, seriously?"

"Sure." David shrugs, "But you've gotta take his place."

"Excuse me?"

David doesn't repeat himself. He gives you a look similar to the one he gave you over a week ago. Daring you, begging you with those unfathomable blue eyes. Paul leans against your other shoulder.

"C'mon," Paul purs. "Join us."

Marko and Dwayne pile on, chanting with Paul, "Join us. Join us. Join us."

David only stares, his hypnotic gaze locked on yours as the chant grew louder. People are starting to stare. 

"You know you want to," David says. "Stop lying to yourself."

Marko giggles, "We promise we'll be good."

From behind, Dwayne mutters, "Extra good."

"Don't leave us hanging, baby," Paul whines.

This isn't what you came here to do. All you wanted was to get them to back off before someone—like Sam or Mom—got hurt. 

But that teeny-tiny part of you, the one you've been trying to smother since you arrived in Santa Carla, pipes up. You didn't have to come. You could have let Michael handle this. You could have ignored them instead of walking into the lion's den. You knew, deep down, that this would happen. You wanted it to.

Your rage evaporates with every passing second and is replaced with that familiar fuzzy feeling in your abdomen. They're so close. 

They pet you—your arms, your hands, your neck. David is content to watch like he knows they're steadily chipping away at your resolve. Dwayne's hands migrate to your hair, toying with the ends. Cool breath fans over your neck. Leather kisses your exposed skin.

You remember too late that you're not wearing your usual maxiskirts but instead a pair of cut-offs that reveal far more skin than you typically like to show. But ... you don't care. If anything, it makes that fuzzy feeling more intense. You want them to look.

"I..." Your breath catches. You don't know what to say, and even if you did, you don't think you can admit it out loud.

David sees this. He knows you. So, he offers his hand instead. Open. Ready. Accepting. You don't need words with him.

Your fingers twitch. It was only a matter of time before they wore you down and coaxed that yes from you.

Slowly, painfully slow, you place your hand in David's. He curls his fingers over yours, sealing the deal.

The boys erupt into cheers, and that hazy bubble of something bursts like fireworks, an explosion of euphoria. Your skin tingles, and you grin. Dwayne wraps his arms around your middle and spins you around, eliciting a surprised shriek from you. 

"C'mon, boys." David tosses his cigarette to the ground and stomps it out. "Let's go." 

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.

I HIGHLY recommend this series, granted that it’s not finished yet. But it is seriously good so far, and I can’t wait to finish it.

ℭ𝔯𝔶 𝔏𝔦𝔱𝔱𝔩𝔢 𝔖𝔦𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯; I

{poly!lost boys x fem!reader}

♱ 𝔯𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤: explicit

♱ 𝔰𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: your family moves to your mother's hometown of santa carla, california after her divorce is finalized. you are less than enthused to be there, but you try to keep your complaints to a minimum for the sake of your mother. on your first night, you run into a strange group of punks.

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

♱ 𝔞/𝔫: here it is—the first chapter of the new and improved version of cry little sister. i initially wrote this fic back in the beginning of 2021 and you can still find the original, orphaned version on AO3. I hope you enjoy! Note - I used the term 'multi-murderer' at one point because 'serial killer' was still a relatively new phrase in the 80s. fun fact - the orignial chapter one was 2661 words; this one is 4434 words.

… [2] [3] … [8] [9]

" —You, too, can make a difference with a one-time donation of nine-ninety-nine— "

"Keep going."

Snow emanates from the car's speakers as Mom fiddles with the dial.

" —degrees today, a record high for our slice of sunny California. We'll see temperatures drop into the low seventies this evening —"

"Keep going, Mom," says Sam.

Snippets of songs, commercials, and talk show host voices overlap as she flips through the radio stations, again, to appease her youngest. Finally, a semi-clear melody plays as she settles on a new one. However, Sam shakes his head. His sandy blond curls bob with him in disapproval.

"Keep it goin'."

"Hey!" Mom cries, "I like that song!"

But Sam makes a face. "Keep going."

You're tempted to kick his seat.  If he says keep going one more friggin time...

Huffing, Mom complies, choosing peace over violence. The next station is, somehow, even worse.  Country.

"Ooo, what about this?" She giggles, shooting you a look in the mirror. You cover your grin with your hand.

"Keep going, mom," says Michael.

"Oh, alright."

More static until the middle part of an old sixties tune began to play. Immediately, your brothers groan.

"No, no, no—wait!" Mom perks up, "This one's from my era." She bops her head from side to side, drumming her fingers on the sweat-slick steering wheel. " Groovin' on a Sunday afternoon! "

Michael and Sam exchange glances and chorus, "Keep going!"

You gap, bracing your hand on the armrest, "Wha—no.  I  like this song."

"Keep going," they echo. Much to your chagrin, Mom joins them, albeit mockingly.

"I got it, I got it. My music isn't hip enough for you."

You sneer at Michael. "Who died and made you king of the radio?"

"The same person who crawled up your ass before he kicked it, four-eyes."

Michael moves to flick your forehead, but you smack his hand away before he makes contact.  That little shit!  Michael swats you back in an equally childish move, chuckling.

"Hey, guys," Mom cranes her neck to look at you through the rear-view mirror. "No fighting, please? Here, I'm changing it."

She turned the dial and stumbled onto a popular rock station. The boys relaxed into their seats, finally listening to good music. You roll your eyes and settle back in your seat, arms crossed.

Triumphantly, Michael wiggles his eyebrows. You flip him off.

"Oh, now this," Sam comments, "This really jams."

It did not, in fact, jam, but you let sleeping dogs lie.

Not literally, though. Nanook was wide awake, sandwiched between you and the window with his shaggy head out the window. He might have been the only passenger in this car having the time of his life.

You can't wait to get out of the car. You've been on the road for nearly thirteen hours now, stopping only to refuel or if one of you really had to pee. You were dying to get out and stretch your legs, which had become a near-permanent bed for Nanook to rest his head. Sure, you liked the dog, but sometimes he got on your last nerve. Especially right now.

You're tempted to pull the classic 'are we there yet,' but fate is on your side.

"Hey, we're almost there," Mom cheers.

She gestures out the window to a corny billboard. A cartoon beach with brilliant blue skies and cresting waves greets you. Yellow-and-orange letters stretch across the sign, reading WELCOME TO SANTA CARLA.

Sam wrinkles his nose. "What's that smell?"

Mom takes a deep breath and sighs, "That's the ocean air, baby."

"Smells like someone  died ."

"Aw …. Honey." Mom merges into a new lane. The general distaste for the place was not lost on her. She glanced back at you and Michael and rubbed Sam's arm. "Look, guys, I know the last year hasn't been easy, but I think you're really gonna like living in Santa Carla."

Her tone is so optimistic it hurts. You cover a wince by re-adjusting your glasses. It's like if she says it with enough conviction, it'll come true. You hope she doesn't notice how you shrink away.

Outside your window is a kaleidoscope of weirdness. Immediately you're hit with crowds of people walking or leaning out their windows as they drive, whooping and hollering. It's a free for all. A high-intensity beach town if you'd ever seen one.

Sunburned skin and skimpy clothes are a staple here. On the sidewalk, you spot a woman wearing rollerblades and a bikini weaving through the crowd like a ballerina. Ice cream cones leave a trail of sticky puddles on the street, serving as a catch-all for cigarette butts and loose bandaids. It's a mess. And yet, an intriguing one. Nothing at all like Phoenix.

Michael nudges you. "Did you see that?"

"Hm?"

"The sign."

"What about it?"

Whatever he's about to say is drowned out by Mom. "We're going to gas up really quick, okay?"

You quirk an eyebrow, elbowing Michael to continue.

"Uh. Nevermind, okay?"

"Sure..."

Mom flicks on the blinker and turns into a rinky-dink station off the main road. A crowd disperses, allowing the vehicle to pull in but not without complaint. Some smack the hood, others shout an oh-so-witty  Watch It!

You sink lower in the seat, cheeks burning with secondhand embarrassment. A group of vicious-looking punks passes by—the kind that has huge mohawks and neck tattoos. You can't help but gawk.

Hello, Santa Carla.

As soon as the car stops, you're careening out of the vehicle. Your knees pop as you stand as if crying out  for freedom, at last!  Mom and Michael stand near the attendant while Sam takes Nanook for a bathroom break. You stay on the opposite side of the car, casually stretching your arms and back as you bask in the breeze.

For the thick of summer, Santa Carla is mild. It must have something to do with being on the coast. The breeze from the water would keep it relatively cool, but the humidity was a bitch. After spending less than a minute in the elements, you can feel your hair frizzing up.

You shield your eyes, squinting over to the beginning of the sandy beach. It's packed.  Damn , you wish you'd bought a pair of sunglasses, but constantly changing them out with your prescription ones would've been a hassle. Squinting like an idiot would suffice.

A couple minutes later, Sam comes running back. Nanook jogs beside him, panting happily.

"Mom!" he calls.

Mom glances briefly over her shoulder and says, "Yeah?" before returning her attention to the attendant.

"Mom, there's an amusement park right on the beach."

Your eyes follow where he points. There is an amusement park a little ways away. You make out the shape of a rollercoaster and cartoonish kitchen shops, which spill onto the sand from the boardwalk. Mom is unphased and instead moves her flighty attention in the opposite direction of the coastal wonderland.

She passes him a few dollars and says, "Sammy, go tell those kids to get something to eat, yeah?"

Across the way, a couple of teens are dumpster diving, picking up half-eaten sandwiches and moldy Chinese takeout containers, giving them a sniff before discarding them into the dumpster once more. You lean further against the car and cross your arms as if they'll shield you from the uncomfortable reality you're faced with. They're runaways. This place is crawling with them. It's like a  Where's Waldo  - once you find one, you suddenly see a dozen more, blending into the background.

Reluctantly, Sam accepted the cash and did as Mom said. You choose not to add your two cents, knowing it would only crush her. Your family needed the money just as they do. You're poor. Barely scraping by over the past couple of months as you prepped for the move, and now you're almost positive that's the last bit of money Mom had on her. But when Sam gestures toward Mom after giving it to the runaways, you watch your Mom's face light up, and you know you are better off keeping quiet. The runaways show their appreciation with a wave and yellow-toothed smiles.

Sammy jogs to the car, jutting his chin at the boardwalk. "Can we go now?"

"Maybe later. Grandpa's expecting us, soon."

Your little brother whines.

A pair of surfers pass the car, raking their Ray-Ban-covered eyes across your body. Their skin is red and peeling from hours in the sun.

One of them whistles at you. "How you doin', baby girl?"

Nose scrunched in disgust, you deign not to respond. Instead, you open the back door and slide inside, taking shelter in the humid cabin; so much for stretching your legs.

Thankfully, it doesn't take long before Mom, Sam, and Nanook re-enter the sedan. Michael, who had unhitched his bike from the trailer, follows behind your car for the rest of the way to Grandpa.

You can't say you remember the old man all that well. It's been years since you saw him. Probably since Sammy was born. Grandpa didn't like to leave Santa Carla, and he and Mom's relationship had been strained until recently. (No thanks to your father, you're sure.) You can only recall his face from pictures in a photo album, back when he still had color in his hair. You're not sure what to expect.

The lively scenery fizzles out, turning into dirt roads, bleached from the sun and overcrowded with scraggly flora. Large wooden poles lay discarded on the law, a fencing project long since abandoned. Although they don't look out of place, the yard is littered with strange knickknacks and ornaments, making the space seem more like a junkyard than the house of a man pushing eighty-five.

When the car stops, you tentatively pop open your door.

The house is … not what you expected. And that's being mild.

Michael hops off his bike, walking ahead of you, but stops short. You follow his gaze and see a pair of legs sprawled out. The rest of the body is hidden by debris.

The four of you approach with caution. The legs don't move.

You share a look with Michael. Unfortunately, this could be only one person, which doesn't bode well.

"Is he dead?" you ask.

Michael affirms, "He looks dead."

Mom waves you off and climbs the porch. "He's just a deep sleeper." She shakes his arm, "Dad? Dad, wake up."

Michael inches closer. Not getting too close to the Maybe-Corpse, but close enough to have a good look. "He's not breathing, Mom."

Sam pops his head in between you two, Nanook trotting up the steps to get a sniff. "If he's dead, can we move back to Phoenix?"

You wack him on the back of the head. "Dude."

"What?"

You make a face as if to say  Have some fucking tact, dipwad!  But Sammy merely rubs the back of his head with a pout.

"What?"

Suddenly, the Maybe-Corpse sits up, one eye open. "Playin' dead … and from what I heard, doin' a damn good job at it."

"Oh, Dad!"

Mom embraces her father, laughing at his incorrigible attitude. You exchange a look with your brothers. What a weird old man.

Unpacking the car was the easy part.

The issues arose when it came to deciding where to put it.

And, hey, it's not like you came here packed to the gills with miscellaneous belongings. Quite the opposite. The four of you had paired down exponentially before the move, donating and selling your items left and right. Sending them to church yard sales, the Salvation Army, or your next-door neighbor's sister-in-law.

No, it wasn't your fault. Grandpa's house was, to put it delicately, a fucking mess. A hodgepodge taxidermy nightmare with tribal art, kitschy figurines, and petrified wood art cluttering every little nook and cranny.

Grandpa filled you in on the house's layout as he supervised. There were two bathrooms, one upstairs and one downstairs, and four bedrooms. One, which was obviously occupied by Grandpa (though from the sound of it, he didn't sleep there), only stored more of his disturbing taxidermy.

Mom would have her own room, which left two others.

Michael attempted to pull rank, claiming that he should get his own room as the oldest. But you refused to go down without a fight. It was quite easy, in the end. All you had to do was pull your Woman Card—citing exactly why neither wanted to room with you.

So, Michael would room with Sammy, and you got a bedroom all to yourself.

You carry your books in by the armful, neatly balancing more atop your head. (A cool party trick but not useful in many scenarios—present one excluded.)

It's sad to think this was a mere fraction of your collection. When the divorce was final, you had pawned off most of your books for extra cash to help Mom out. She didn't ask you to do this, but you wanted to. It seemed like the right thing to do.

Abruptly, Sammy and Michael tear past you. Sammy clips your shoulder, sending the stack of books on your head, crashing to the ground. You stagger, dropping the box in your hands to the ground unceremoniously.

"Watch it, dweebs!"

"Mom! Help me, help! He's gonna kill me! "

Mom sidesteps, narrowly avoiding a similar fate. "Hey, no running in the house, guys!"

In a daring attempt at an escape, Sam threw a set of double doors open. It led into a once-spacious room filled with dead animal heads, disturbing tools, and … fresh animal carcasses.

"Talk about the Texas Chainsaw Massacre," Michael mutters.

"Rules!" The three of you whirl around, coming face-to-face with Grandpa's stink-eye. "Got some rules around here."

With a flick of his wrist, Grandpa motions for the three of you to follow as he trudges into the kitchen. He wrenches the fridge door and points to a cardboard piece that reads OLD FART, covering the middle shelf.

"Second shelf is mine." He flips it open, showcasing the goods that lay inside. "I keep my root beers and double-thick Oreo cookies in here. Nobody touches the second shelf."

Another pointed stink eye at the three of you.

He takes his leave from the kitchen, an unspoken command to follow him. Leading you into the living room, Grandpa says something about how he prefers his couch to be when Michael interjects.

"Hey Grandpa—is it true that Santa Carla is the murder capital of the world?"

"Where did you learn that?" you ask, startled.

"'S on the sign."

Grandpa presses his fleshy lips into a thin line. "Ehhh … There's some bad elements around here…."

Sam blinks. "Wait a second, lemme get this straight. Are you telling me that we moved to the murder capitol of the world? Are you serious, Grandpa?"

He shuffles, choosing his next words carefully. "Now let me put it this way; if all the corpses buried around here were to stand up all at once, we'd have one helluva population problem."

With two hats stacked on top of her head, Mom stopped long enough to hear the tail end of the conversation. She rolled her eyes and said, "Great,  Dad. Now you're going to give them nightmares."

Grandpa waved his hand at her, muttering something under his breath about how kids this age are surprisingly well-adjusted. Your stomach twists at the mere thought of what you just learned. But, apparently, living in the Murder Capital of the World doesn't phase an old codger like your Grandpa because he's on another one of his tangents before long.

"Now, when the mailman brings the TV Guide on Wednesdays, sometimes the corner of the address label will curl up … You'll be tempted to peel it off. Don't. You'll end up rippin' the cover and I don't like that." He turned into the taxidermy room and, with a stern glare, began to shut the doors. "And stay outta here!"

Sammy jogs after him—the horror of his new living arrangements suddenly forgotten—eyes bright. "There's a TV?"

"No. I just like to read the TV Guide. Read the TV Guide, you don't need a TV."

Grandpa slams the double doors shut with a definitive thud. Sam flinches, his expression falling flat. Apparently, the imminent threat of murder is nothing compared to being without MTV.

Together, you walk hand-in-hand with Mom along the Boardwalk. Night has fallen, and yet Santa Carla doesn't know darkness. Neon signs and blinking lights glistening from amusement park rides chase away the blackness. It's an artificial Arcadia. The smell of corn dogs mingles with the salty ocean spray and BO.

"Isn't this place fun?" Mom cheers.

To say that Santa Carla was better at night would be a lie. It's just as sweaty and packed as before, but now there are more miscreants. People up to no good, drawn to the dark, have come crawling out of the woodwork and currently infest the Boardwalk like maggots on a carcass.

You would rather be at home reading, but you endure the torture for Mom.

"It's … something."

You won't deny that it's exciting, but it's not your cup of tea. Everything is a little too much, a little too loud, a little too bright. A group of surfers pass you by, brushing against you. You shy away, gripping her hand tighter.

Mom giggles to herself, pointing vaguely. "I think I dated that guy."

Instead of following her finger, you stare at a four-sided bulletin board. Flyers stacked upon flyers create an inch-thick layer over the cork. Some advertise band performances. Others, the grisly black and white photos of the MISSING. A woman in her late sixties tapes a new one atop another. You'll avert your eyes.

"Horrible," you mutter.

Mom notices, her happy mood dampening. "That's the kind of thing that makes you sad with the world."

"More like  depressed ."

"You've just gotta hope they're somewhere good. Somewhere better. Like me," she motions to herself. "A little running away never hurt anybody. It's all about improving your situation. That's all."

Her admission makes your heart feel heavy. It's no secret that Mom was a bit of a rebel back in her day. She's been open about her time on the street, how it made her more appreciative of the little things, but still ...

You get a good look at her and try to peel back the layers of makeup and age, imagining her as a naive sixteen-year-old. Did she have a missing flyer? Would Grandpa have made one? Did anyone who saw it care, or did they walk away blissfully ignorant.

Michael's words flash across your mind. MURDER CAPITAL OF THE WORLD. What an ugly thing to know? How lucky were you, knowing that Mom was one of the lucky ones when she could have been some multi-murderer's nameless victim.

Tightening your grip on her hand, you rest your head on her shoulder. "You don't have to worry about me running away."

Mom sighs—it almost sounds relieved. She lays her hand on my cheek, smoothing it over my hair.

"Thank you—I hope I never do. But if you want to, you know, just tell me."

"I think that defeats the purpose."

That earns a giggle from her. You laugh. It's nice to see her laugh again. She's been depressed even before the divorce was final. The sudden upheaval of her life, losing her job, and moving to a new state with three children ... It's a lot. You try to remind yourself that she's only human. Flawed and scared, just like you.

A sun-bleached HELP WANTED sign sits in the restaurant window; however, something else steals Mom's attention before you can point it out.

A small child. Maybe seven or eight—you've never been good at guessing children's ages—stands in the middle of the crowd, sobbing. No one else has noticed him, save for the two of you. You think you can hear him crying for his Mom, but it's drowned out by the general raucous of the Boardwalk.

Mom makes a B-line for the little boy, leaping into action before you realize she's gone. She kneels to his side and rests a comforting hand on his shoulder. They exchange a few soft-spoken words. The boy doesn't quit crying; he seems marginally calmer now that an adult has stepped onto the scene.

She calls out to you. "I'm going to go in here, okay? I'll see if I can find his Mom. Just stay put for me."

"Yeah. Of course."

She smiles, close-lipped yet appreciative. Mom leads him into the video store with one hand on the young boy's back.

You watch her go, suddenly feeling out of place on the Boardwalk. Too exposed, too vulnerable. All around you are swarms of people, cackling, smoking, and stealing. Everything is so new and unknown that it makes you tense. Even though you're old enough to stand on your own—a full-fledged adult, if you want to get technical—you can't help but miss the safety that your Mom provided just by being beside you.

" ... Murder capital of the world ...? " You shake your head, crossing your arms over your chest. "That's just ... peachy."

Out of the corner of your eye, you spot a used bookstore, some of their wears outside on a cart.  Hm. A Perfect distraction . You wander over and pursue the cracked spines. Some of them are so worn that you can hardly read the title.

Dragging your fingers along the battered books, you randomly pluck one from the cart, which appears to be a serial gothic horror, and flip it over. The synopsis is mildly interesting, similar to dozens you've read before, so you can easily guess where the plot will go.

Glancing toward the video store, you see the little boy being led away by who you presume to be his mother. He's sobbing harder, but it's out of relief. The mother scoops him up. The boy is much too big to be coddled that way, but it pulls a small smile out of you. But, now ...

"... Where's my mom?" you ask, the air under your breath.

Instead of getting an answer, another group exits the video store. A group of punks around your age draped in black leather and bad attitude. One of them catches you staring. Quickly, you avert your eyes, returning to the book.

Brows furrowed, you grab another book, but you're too distracted by your own thoughts to read anything. What's keeping her?

You gnaw on your lip. Then, just as you decide to look for her, a figure blocks your light.

Prepared to rip someone a new one about personal space, you look up, coming face-to-chest with one of the aforementioned punks. He leers at you with gorgeous baby-blue eyes and a heart-stopping smile. Long blond hair cascades down his shoulders in a well-styled wave. Your insult dies before it's born, lips parting in shock.

Blondie's smile broadens. "Hello, hello, hello." He rests his arm on the wall beside you, casually leaning closer. "How are you doing on this fine evening?"

He speaks with the quintessential west-coast accent, and it suits him. He's summer personified, and perhaps in another scenario, you would have reciprocated his energy, but you're starting to feel claustrophobic.

"I'm fine." You blindly put the book back and duck under his arm, "If you'll just excuse me—"

A second punk blocks your way. He's shorter than the other, cherubic face and curly blond hair forming a halo around his head. His smile is less than angelic.

"Isn't that the darnedest thing?" He doesn't touch you, but his hand hovers inches from your skin. "We're going that way, too."

You turn away, but the first blond is waiting for you. "Yeah," drawls the first. "We can be your armed escorts for the evening. Don't want a babe like you getting lost."

"That's very generous of you, but I'm fine. I've gotta go, I'm meeting someone."

This earns a chuckle out of them. It echoes around you, and with a quick sweep of your eyes, you also realize the other two punks are there. They stay a few steps back, allowing their buddies all the space they need while they lean against their motorbikes.

Heart pounding, your throat constricting as if an invisible hand had reached out to choke you. You stagger back and bump into the railing.

The bleached blond pushes off his bike, readjusting his leather gloves. "Aren't you meeting someone right now?"

You avert your gaze from his, only to lock eyes with the fourth and most silent punk. His irises are like sloes, blackened pits of amusement. You would find no help in that man; he liked taunting you just as much as his companions.

Californian Blondie leans in close, toying with a strand of your hair. "What's your name, baby?"

He draws out the word—bay-bee—lazily. It sounds eerily similar to Jon Travolta's character from  Grease ; he nailed the greaser accent. It sounds like he's used it on hundreds of chicks, and it's worked every time. Unfortunately, you are no different. It brings a rush of heat to your face, and you try to hide it behind your hand.

You tell them, if only to shut them up. "Really, I need to go—"

"So soon?" The shorter, curly-haired blond pipes up.

Another bought of laughter ripples through the four of them. You want to die. Shrinking against the railing, you can't help but wish that Michael was around. He may be a meathead, but he was bigger than them. The threat of a punch might make them stand down.

"Don't you wanna get to know us?" jeers Curly.

"Not particularly."

"Ack—" He grabs his chest, feigning injury. "—you wound me! Be careful, boys, the lady's words are sharp!"

He stumbles back, colliding with the tall, dark, and brooding punk before dramatically collapsing. Apparently, his act is worthy of Shakespeare because the bleached blond is clapping. Yet, all the while, his piercing cyan gaze never leaves yours.

"Marko!" California Blondie cries, abandoning his position beside you to come to his friend's aid. "Hang on a little longer, buddy. There's still a chance!"

You catch a glimpse of Mom exiting the video store. Seizing your chance, you push through the boys and join her.

Mom takes one look at your face, and her smile falls. "Are you okay, honey?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." You link your arm to her and pull her in the opposite direction of those punks. "Let's just go, okay?"

The punks erupt into another fit of laughter, and you flinch.

It’s scented… right?

Summary: The boys help shop for all you feminine products while you are away

Word count: 0.6k

A/n: I really just needed to write, so, please injoy :)

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The buggy’s front wheel spun in quick circles, the squeaking irritating Dean the deeper into the store he went. Sam had two hands on the handle bar, leading them down various isles as he grabbed what was on the grocery list. 

“Did you get the milk?” He asked, glancing at his brother as he placed a bag of chips into the buggy. 

“No.”

“Why not? We were just at the dairy isle.” 

Dean shrugged his shoulders eyes glazing across the chips. “I thought you grabbed it.”

A huff left Sam’s lips. “Yes, because I’d grab the milk after I told you to do it.”

“I’ll get it later, ok.” Dean told him, snatching the grocery list from his brothers hands. “What do we need to grab next?”

“Tampons and a couple pads.” Sam answered, having memorized the list already. 

“Tampons and pads? I thought she had that.”

“No, Dean.” Sam muttered leading him and his brother to the feminine isle. “If she had it we wouldn’t need to get more.”

Cas made his way towards the brothers a case of beer in hand as he placed it into the cart. “All they had was light beer, so I hope that’s alright.” He told them, trailing next to the buggy. 

“That’s fine, Cas.” Sam told the angel. 

“Yeah, for you.” Dean mumbled, shooting a small glare at the alcohol. 

Taking another turn, the three wandered down the isle stacked full of female products. Each stoping beside one another as they took in all of the many items that filled the shelves. 

You’d asked Sam specifically to grab your feminine items, seeing as he’s the only one who’d lived with a woman before. It would have been a whole lot easier than asking Dean or Cas to do it. 

“So,” Dean began arms crossing over one another as he stood before the various pads and tampons. “What does she need? Yellow? Green? Purple?”

Sam glanced up from the list to look at his brother. “What are you talking about? Why are you naming colors?”

He nodded towards a tampon box. “They all have different colors, Sam, kinda like fruits.”

Cas wondered over to Deans side, his eyebrows furrowing. “These things have taste?” He asked, picking up a box to look at it more closely. 

“No.”

“Yes.”

Sam shot a glare at his older brother. “What?” Dean asked.

“Why would it be flavored?” He asked trying to reason with the man. 

Dean shrugged his shoulders, taking the box back from Cas and placing it back in the shelf. “Some guys like that kind of stuff, Sam.”

Sam scrunched his nose in disgust. “That’s disgusting.”

“But it’s not flavored, Cas,” Dean began, turning towards the angel. “Because it’s scented.”

“Scented?” 

“Dear god.” Sam mumbled to himself, running a hand across his face. 

Dean nodded, gesturing to the rows of boxes. “Of course they’re scented. Because blood has smell, and so girls have to cover it up with a better smell.” He snapped his fingers, an example coming to mind. “Like perfume.”

Cas let out a small hum, his attention returning back to the products. Dean glanced over at his brother, his voice dropping down to a whisper. “It’s scented… right?”

Sam shook his head. 

A small ‘oh’ fell from the older man’s lips, face ever so slightly heating up on how wrong he truly was. Facing the shelves one last time Dean had begun to pluck and pull a good many boxes from their previous spots. “We’ll just get one of everything,” he told the others, placing the items into the cart. “Better safe than sorry.”

A sigh fell from Sam’s lips as he watched both Dean and Cas place multiple box’s into the buggy, before wandering away to the desserts isle. Leaving the poor man with the over loaded cart full of felmine products. 

“I’ll handle it, y/n,” he mumbled to himself, trailing after his brother and angelic friend. “I know what to get you, trust me.” Sam leaned his upper body against the handle bar, glancing over all the items that they’d gathered. “We won’t need to get more for another year or so now.”

Baby face

Summary: You start to get upset when Dean decides to shave off his beard

Word count: 0.5k

A/n: Live. Laugh. Love. Bearded Jensen.

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Your hands gently moved through Deans beard, the small hairs causing you fingers to tingle from the sensation. His own hands rested on your thighs, holding you gently as you sat on top of the bathroom counter. 

“Princess?” He called, watching as your eyes drifted from the hair on his face to his relaxed ones. “Are you gonna start or are you gonna wait for it to grow longer?”

A small pout found its way onto your mouth, “I don’t want to get rid of your beard.” You whined, having half the mindset to hide the razor from the taller man. “I’d rather watch it grow.”

Dean mirrored your pout, albeit mockingly. “Well, it’s starting to get on my nerves, princess. It has to go.”

“Ok. But what if we just leave a bit of stubble instead?” 

“No.”

“But, it’s attractive.” You told him, hoping that’d he change his mind and keep it for just a little longer. 

“To bad.” He replied, stepping from between your legs. Taking a bottle of shaving cream and the razor from your grasp. “It’s starting to itch.”

You let out a small huff, slightly mesmerized at how he gently applied the shaving cream to the lower portion of his face. The fluffy white sudes mixing into the small strands thickly and throughly 

Dean wetted the blade beneath the warm faucet, giving it a good shake to take off all excess water. Fingers gently pressed against his chin, he began to shave against the grain of his beard. You felt your stomach drop as you watched the foam disappear and just the smooth skin left in its place. 

“What if you just keep a mustache?” You asked, leg coming up to your chest as you rested your chin on top. 

Dean stopped his movements, glancing at you through the mirror. “Absolutely not.”

A scoff came from your mouth. “Why not? Do you think you’d look like hitler or something?”

“I wasn’t thinking that, but now I am.” He told you, continuing to shave away at his facial hair. 

“So, no?”

“No.”

You shook your head, sliding off the counter as you made your way behind the older man. Placing both arms around his torso you rested your cheek against his back, listening for his heartbeat through the back of his shirt. 

“Princess,” Dean called, not stopping his movements. “What are you doing?”

“I can’t watch you ruin your face.” You told him bluntly, turning your face to bury it in his shirt. 

A chuckle left his lips, giving a smile glance over his shoulder to look at you. “Ruining my face, huh?” You nodded. “You know it’ll grow back, just like last time and the time before that.”

“But it’s torture.” You wined. “It’s like I’m dating a child when your done.”

Dean gave a small nod of his head, knowing that you’d either be talking about his childish behaviors or the baby face he’d get after shaving. Though it could just be both. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Will it make you feel better if next time I let you shave me?” He asked, dragging the blade over the last strip of foam from his face. 

You nodded you head just a tad, “A little, yes.”

“Okay, princess.” He wiped any remaining shaving cream from his face before turning around and wrapping his arms around you. “We’ll do that.”

you trying to distract the vampire from the fact that Sam and Dean are killing the rest of its nest: So… does menstrual blood taste any different than vein blood?

the vampire who’s been listening to you for the past half hour: Please. For the love of God. SHUT UP!

the vamp:

Privacy privilege

Summary: Dean had started to invade your privacy more often after a hunt

Word count: 0.8k

A/n: I had some fun writing protective Dean in this one

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The last hunt was too much of a close call for Dean. 

It’s been a simple vampire case, a in and out kind of deal. But, when you slipped up a little and were almost a vamps blood bag, he felt a need to protect you immediately afterwards. The thought of you ending up dead while on a hunt with him caused an itch in the back of his brain. Something he needed to get rid of or at least settle down. 

So, he began to follow you around.

It started out simple enough, sitting on the same booth as you at a restaurant, watching you through the rear view mirror on a long drive. And, recently making you share the same bed as he did. The feeling of your body safely tucked against his calmed him. 

But, then the more hunts you went the more worried he got. 

The feeling that something would happen to you if he wasn’t around caused him to panic and start to hang around you more than ever. 

What started as a simple watching you from the corner of his eye quickly turning into needing to be right next to you 24/7. He’d follow you around like a lost puppy, eyes darting around to find any potential danger. 

You’d spoken to Sam about Deans behavior, and he had agreed that it was new and different than what he normally is. But, according to Sam, Dean is naturally a protector at heart. Probably coming from being the oldest and having to take care of his little brother all the time. 

But, still, you appreciated Dean trying to protect you, but he had started to invade you privacy. 

Often not leaving you alone when you’d really need to be. Kinda like right now. You were taking a shower in the motels bathroom, the water cascading down your body when Deans humming kept on bringing you out of your peaceful state. 

You didn’t really know when he entered the bathroom, but when he did you know it was no use in trying to kick him out. He sat patiently on the toilet, the lid down so that he wouldn’t ache from sitting in the same spot for twenty minutes. 

A small magazine rested in his hands, the sound of the turning papers mixing with his humming caused you to finally stick your head past the shower curtain. 

“Dean.” You called, in the nicest voice you could muster. Slowly growing tired of his protective attitude. 

“Yes, princess?” He asked, the magazine he’d been reading tossed onto the counter as he focused solely in you.  

Pasting a quick smile on your face, you pulled the curtain closer to your naked body. “Could I have just a couple minutes to myself in here?”

Dean furrowed his brows. “Why?”

“Because, it’s kinda weird how I’m naked in here while your out there fully clothed and humming a rock song.” You stated, hoping that telling him you were slightly uncomfortable with the situation would be enough for him to leave the bathroom. 

“Would you like me to join you then, so you’d feel less weird about this?” He asked, standing from the toilet seat and making his way towards you, his flannel quickly coming off and into the piles of clothes you’d already made. 

“No! No, Dean.” You started to shout, more than likely grabbing both your neighbors and Sam’s attention whilst doing so. “Put the flannel back on and get out!”

“Why?” He asked confused. “I’d have my back turned the entire time, or if you want I could even help you shower-“

Dean stopped talking when a soft but wet object connected with his face. “Did- did you throw a loofah at me?”

“Yes, and I’ll throw something harder next time if you don’t get out of here!” Your face was hot, and not just from the boiling shower you were taking but because Dean freaking Winchester was trying to hope in the shower with you like it was a normal thing. 

He held up his hands, reluctantly making his way to the bathroom door. “Look I get that it’s weird, but it’ll help protect you.”

“Dean, I’m not going to die in the freaking shower.”

“Who knows, it’s a strange world, but I’ll be here if it happens and I’ll be able to-“ His eyes widened as you made an attempt to throw your soap bar at him, missing him by a hair and sending him running out of the bathroom. 

A breathy laugh came from one of the beds, facing the noise he saw his brother with newspaper articles and his computer laid out in front of him. “I told you she would not have appreciated you going in there.” Sam told his older brother, a smug smile playing in his lips as he watched Dean taking a seat at the small table. 

“Shut up.” He told him, now waiting for you to leave the bathroom so that he could be glued to your hip once more. “She’s gonna thank me one day.”

“Yeah, but definitely not any time soon.”

Dawg gone-it!

Summary: Dean isn’t too keen on how close you and a stray have been getting lately

Word count: 0.6k

A/n: NO HATE AGAINST ANY DOGS!!! We love dogs, and Dean loves dogs, just not the one you’ve been getting close to

A/a/n: Y’all I just got done with the first set of workouts this summer, for school. And OMG it literally killed me, I don’t know if I can do this all summer.

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Dean had always loved dogs. Ever since he was a little boy all the way to the burly man that he currently was, his heart had always had a special spot for the canines. 

Until, you had rescued one from a hunt. 

A week. Minimum. That’s how long you and the brothers had agreed to keep the animal until you found a rightful shelter. Seven days with man’s best friend, living and traveling in the back of the impala with them. 

A simple week, Dean would’ve loved that.

Yes, he would’ve loved it, if all your attention hadn’t stayed solely on the dog. 

It was everyday that you’d get up early and walk the animal, Sam often joining in his jogs before he would take a different route. And, Dean was fine with you getting the dog some exercise, what he didn’t like was you leaving the warmth of the motel bed to do so. Leaving Dean yearning for the feel of your body in the early mornings. 

And it wasn’t even just that. No, no, no. You’d had given the dog your leftovers one afternoon. Right in front of Dean too. Knowing well enough that whatever you didn’t eat, you’d always hand over to Dean. 

But, it shouldn’t bother him, no. Dean could go with out your morning embrace, your leftover Chinese that Dean tried his hardest not to tell you that he was waiting patiently for. 

No, what really bothered him more than anything, was when you called that dog your ‘pretty boy’.

Dean was your pretty boy. It was the nickname that you’d donned him with, he loved that special little name that you’d picked out for him. 

And out of all the names that’s what you’d called that slobbery animal, that’s what you called him. That dog, who’d slowly been taking you away from Dean ever since he was found out in the streets. Who’d been stealing you away from him for the past few days right under his nose the whole time. 

Dean couldn’t prove it, but he knew that the dog was doing it on purpose. 

He knew that the dog would give him a satisfied smirk, every time he’d turn his back on you and the animal. He knew what he was doing and he was playing you like a damn fiddle. 

You currently sat on your and Deans motel bed, an old hay brush passing through the dogs tangled fur as you gave him sweet praises. Dean sat behind you against the headboard, muttering under his breath all the things you’d say in a mocking tone. 

Not that he was trying to mock you, but you’d fallen so easily in the dogs trap that you could no longer get out. It was kinda hard not to. 

“Good boy.” You whispered to the dog, placing a soft kiss to the top of his head. “The goodest boy.”

Dean could see his tail wagging from his position, body moving with each sharp wag. 

Suck up. Dean wanted to say to the dog, not that he won’t when you leave the room. But, for now he’s happy with the one sided argument that he’s winning against an animal. 

You then placed the hairbrush on the side of the bed, hands coming to pet the dogs now soft fur. Gentle praises leaving your mouth as you then began to scratch behind his ears. 

Dean stared at the sight before him, wishing that he’d be the one that you’d run your fingers through his hair. Telling him how pretty and handsome he was. “You never do that to me.” Dean muttered softly.

“What?” Thankfully, what he said never truly meeting your ears. 

“I said he’s very obidient.” Dean replied louder, watching as a small smile formed on your face as you agreed. Your attention returning back to the animal, completely missing the sour look he gave the dog. 

God, he couldn’t wait til this dog was gone. 

It’s a scream, baby

Summary: Dean and you discuss what the best Horror film is

Word count: 0.5k

A/n: In your opinion, what’s the best slasher movie?

A/a/n: Y’all please ignore the graphics on this one, I literally didn’t sleep at all last night because I was finishing a book. So please just ignore it. Thank you!

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“No,no,no,no,no.” You quickly spoke, the bucket of popcorn jumbling around in your lap. “Carrie, only killed everyone because she was made fun of on the best day of her life. If she weren’t then everyone would still be alive.”

“But that doesn’t make her movie the best horror film.” Dean accused, mouth filled with half eaten popcorn as he did so. 

You rolled you eyes, “I never said Carrie was the best horror film, I was just trying to make a valid point.”

“And it was a valid point, but that still doesn’t answer the main question.”

“Does it really matter?” Sam asked, trying his hardest to focus on the slasher film both you and Dean forced him to watch. 

“Yes.” You both said in unison.

Facing you again, Dean began to make his own point. “Friday the 13th, is by far the best horror film.” He told you grabbing a handful of popcorn from the bucket before popping it in his mouth. “Because it has all the right things a good slasher would need, a great backstory, a power hungry killer and most importantly tits.”

“Ok, one,” you began, holding up a single digit. “The first movie sucked, the second was the best of the franchise. Two, Jason was not power hungry, he was a man with severe mommy issues. And, three, all 70’s to early 90’s slasher has a girl showing her tits.”

“Not all of them.” Dean muttered. 

“And besides, all the girls that ended up flashing the camera were dead by the end. That’s Scream, 101. Which I think is the best slasher.”

Dean let out a chuckle, “And why would Scream be better that Friday the 13th?”

“The Ghostfacers are hot.” You told him bluntly, taking a quick sip of your beer. 

“They’re hot?” He said, almost as to see if he was hearing you right. “That’s why you think it’s the best horror film.”

“Yes.”

Dean looked over at his brother, trying to see if he was agreeing with you or not. Even though Sam had stopped listening to either of you a good couple of minutes ago. Glancing back over at you again, he squinted his eyes ever so slightly. “What other slashers do you find hot?”

You looked up at the ceiling, hand coming up in front of you as you began to start counting on your fingers. “The ghostfacers, with or without the masks, Micheal Myers, Jason, that Tiffany girl-“

“Tiffany is a doll.” Dean stated.

“And?” You then continued. “That dude from fear street, that had the potato sack over his head, he was really hot then. And, the guy from the black phone.”

Dean furrowed his eyebrows, “I thought the guy from Black Phone was gay.”

“Why would you say that?”

“Y/n, he kidnapped little boys and watched them while they slept. He isn’t just gay, he is also a pedophile.” He told you, pointing an accusing hand over at the TV as if it were the moving playing. 

“Ok, so, he might be gay. Big deal. But, Ethan Hawke had some great tits in that movie.”

Dean gave you a funny look, “Why were you staring at his tits?”

“The same reason you do, Dean.” You told him placing a couple pieces of buttered popcorn on you tounge. “The same exact reason you do.”

Supernatural Masterlist

So… Deja Vu?

— Sam and Dean have to watch their best friend die over and over again everyday.

Tell me a story 

— Dean has trouble sleeping at night

My wife, even better

— Dean can’t stop talking about you, his wife.

Better than nothing 

— You and Castiel work together to help make Deans birthday cake.

Strange human emotions 

— Castiel has been experiencing some rather strange emotions, especially ones that revolve around you.

Said, I was sorry

— You’re pissed at Dean, and Sam and Bobby find it amusing.

Five more minutes 

— Dean gets to spend the morning with you

It’s a scream, baby

— Dean and you discuss what the best Horror film is

Privacy privilege

— Dean had started to invade your privacy more often after a hunt

Baby face

— You start to get upset when Dean decides to shave off his beard

It’s scented… right?

— The boys help shop for all you feminine products while you are away

Five more minutes

Summary: Dean gets to spend the morning with you

Word count: 0.4k

A/n: Lowkey, I love this one, hope you guys enjoy ;)

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Sun filtered through the cheap motel curtains, filling the room with its earthy glow. Dean had been up for hours. Basking in the feel of your body pulled tightly against his own. It was almost heavenly. 

God, you were so pretty. He would think to himself, arms ever so slightly tightening themselves around your waist. You looked so young when you were relaxed, so innocent. It made Dean just want to protect you from the outside world. 

But he knew he couldn’t do that. He knew that when you’d wake up, you’d go back to be in the badass hunter that you were. The one who pretended to not be afraid of anything and tried to protect the ones you loved.

And Dean loved that side of you, he’d cherish it every time he saw it. But, when you relax and let the world and all its bullshit problems escape from you, that’s when Dean would step in. That’s when Dean would protect you like he does Sam, he would worry and shield you away from danger if he could. If that meant you would be sweet and innocent as you were now. 

He lifted a hand, tugging it up to pull a few pieces of stray hairs from your face. Fingers gracing the your soft skin gently before he retracted his hand. You slowly rustled against his touch, eyes squinting against the gently lit room before nuzzling back into your previous position. 

The sound of his brother slowly waking caught his attention, Dean knew that he’d have to wake you up as well. Force you out of bed and out into the world of hunting. So, he pulled you closer, his head coming to rest on top of yours as he just listened to you breath for now. 

Happy and content that you were at peace for just a little while longer. That he would get to have this moment with you for just a couple more seconds. 

“Dean?” Sam’s voice called from his bed, voice groggy and ruff from just waking up. 

“Yeah?”

“We gotta get up.” He told him, the sound of covers being thrown meeting Deans ears. 

He just hummed in acknowledgment, allowing him a few more seconds to soak in your unaware presence. The smell of your body wash and old perfume, consuming his senses as he laid there. “Just give me five more minutes.”

Five more minutes, to take in the feel of your skin against his own. 

Five more minutes, to bask in your beauty. 

Five more minutes, to feel like he can actually protect you from the world that they live in. 

Five more minutes, to for him to realize that he can’t live without you beside him. 

Five more minutes, to realize just how much he truly loved you. 

Said, I was sorry

Summary: You’re pissed at Dean, and Sam and Bobby find it amusing.

Word count: 0.9k

A/n: Once more not my favorite, but still hope you guys enjoy :)

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The silence you gave off aggravated Dean to a higher level. And he didn’t know how to fix it. He’d apologized, tried to cheer you up with a slice of pie, he even listened to both Sam and Bobby on how he could make it up to you. 

But to no avail, you barely spoke to the poor man. 

He knew it was his fault, anyone could have told him that. In fact you reminded him plenty of times on the ride back from the case. God, that ride back to Bobby’s was dreadful, you made Sam sit in the backseat and wouldn’t even let Dean turn his music up all the way either. 

But, he would take that as punishment, if that would mean you would speak to him again. 

“So,” Bobby started, voice low as he watched you leave the small library of his. “What did you do to her?”

Sam bit back a laugh, hand coming up to his his smile from his brother. “Shut up.” Dean told him, hands coming up to rub his face. The long quiet drive back having drained his battery. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Bobby leaned against the desk, arms crossed over the other as he stared at the younger man. “What do you mean, ‘I don’t want to talk about it’? She’s barley looked or even spoken to you since you’ve been here. Now, what the hell did you do?”

“I- I messed up on the hunt, ok.” He finally told him, head hanging low for a second before meeting the man’s eyes again. “We were hunting the shapeshifter, and we were lead to an old drinking well out at a farm.”

Dean let out a deep sigh before continuing, “And you know Sam and I were to big and too heavy to go down the well, so Y/n had to do it.”

“So you, what? Forced her down the well, threw her down?” 

“No.” Dean muttered, slowly pacing the small library. “No, we tied a rope around her and we hoisted her up and over into the well, and-“

“We?” Sam asked, a playful smile dancing across his lips. “I think I went back to the farm house and tried to find the shapeshifter.”

“Ok, then, I hoisted her up and into the well.” He corrected, shooting an annoyed look at his brother. “And it was going great, I had a firm grip on the rope, she didn’t slip. But…”

Bobby quirked an eyebrow, “But?”

“But, we found the rope in an old shed, and as I was lowering her down the well, I saw- I felt a uh.” Dean lowered his voice, embarrassment seeping its way into his body. “A spider.”

“A what?”

“A spider.” Dean told him a bit louder. 

Bobby looked between both Dean and his brother, taking in the shame one had and the other trying to hold in his laughter. “Dean, what did you do?”

“I let go of the rope, by accident.”

A chuckle forced its way past his lips, a hand coming up to hide his ever growing smile. “So, what your telling me is that you dropped Y/n down a water well, because you saw a spider?”

“You wouldn’t understand,” Dean tried to defend himself, his tone rising as both Sam and Bobby erupted into fits of laughter. “It crawled up my hands, got under my shirt. It was gonna bite me.”

“She had to ride the whole way here in soggy clothes, because we didn’t bring any dry clothes with us.” Sam told Bobby, 

Bobby laughed a bit more at the younger man actions, a hand coming up to wipe away at his eyes. “Look kid, just be nice to her, she’ll have to forgive you sooner or later.” He told Dean, keeping his voice low as he heard you make your way back to them. 

You came back with three beers in hand, passing two off to both Sam and Bobby before opening your own. Dean held out his hand expecting you to place a glass bottle in it for him, but just watched as you sit behind the desk taking slow deliberate sips of your drink. 

“I would like a beer.” Dean told you, hand coming back down to rest by his side. 

“Ran out.” You told him bluntly, flicking through a book that sat on top the desk. 

Dean pulled his lips into a thin line, dodging both Sam and Bobby’s eyes. “What do we have?” He asked, needing something to quench his thirst. 

You looked up at the older man, pretending to ponder the question. “We have water.”

“Then can I have water?” A cough came from his side, glancing over he caught Bobby and Sam giving him a look. “Please?”

A sigh left your lips before you got up once more, disappearing past the doorway and into the kitchen. “See,” Bobby told him, taking a quick sip of his beer. “Just be a little nice and she’ll forgive you in no time.”

You retured quickly, placing a cup onto the bookshelf next to Dean. Reaching over he picked up the cup, twisting it in front of him, a small scowl resting on his face as he faced you. “This is ice, Y/n.”

“Yep.” You told him, returning to your seat. 

“I asked for water.”

“You can wait.”

Dean let out a sigh, placing the cup back onto the bookshelf, “I can wait.”