#Buck Cleven fanfic

[heretoobsessstuff]

what took you so long?

A tender moment between john and gale in stalag, written for mota's 1 year anniversary and the beginning of the way they consumed my life lol.

John woke up one night to find Gale in his space.

*

It wasn’t unusual for Gale to hover nearby now. To watch him carefully when he thought John was sleeping. To trace his broken eye socket tenderly before sighing and retiring to his own bunk. But this was different.

Gale had been restless all evening. John had noticed the way he kept fidgeting, the way he looked over at John more than once as if he wanted to say something but he never did.

John hadn’t pressed. He knew Gale and he knew pressuring him would end up doing the exact opposite of drawing him out of his shell. He let Gale sit in his usual spot near the bunk and pretended not to notice how he stayed there longer than necessary, even when the lights were out and everyone else had gone to sleep. John closed his eyes and waited for sleep to come. Eventually, Gale had gone to bed as well.

Or so John thought.

Now, as John blinked blearily in the dark of the night, he realized Gale wasn’t in his own bunk.

He was sitting on the floor, knees drawn up, back pressed lightly against the edge of John’s mattress.

This was it. John took a slow breath. “Couldn’t sleep?”

Gale didn’t startle.

Didn’t move.

He just exhaled quietly. “No.”

John shifted up onto his elbows, watching him. “Why are you down there?”

A beat.

Then, soft, hesitant..

“…I wanted to be close.”

John felt something in his chest ache.

He reached out, slow and deliberate, brushing his knuckles against Gale’s shoulder. “Come up here.”

Gale hesitated.

Then, carefully, deliberately, he moved.

John barely had time to shift before Gale was easing into the bed beside him gingerly, not quite touching, but close enough that John could feel his warmth and the slight shake of his limbs.

Gale let out a slow breath, his fingers twitching slightly against the blankets.

John watched him carefully. Then, quietly he whispered 

“Come here.”

Gale shivered. Eyeing John for a second before finally, he gave in.

He shifted closer, pressing into John’s side, his head tilting just slightly toward him.

John let out a slow breath, moving his head to rest lightly against Gale’s. “You okay?”

Gale swallowed.

“…I think so.”

John let his hand trace over Gale’s wrist, grounding. He felt Gale exhale, leaning into him a little more.

And John knew.

Gale wasn’t just letting himself be close.

He was asking for it. Not in words, but in ways he knew John understood. In ways John had learned about Gale over years of knowing him.

John could feel it, the way he was right there, close enough that he could reach for him easily, pull him close enough that John could feel the heat of him, but still holding back.

Still keeping that last bit of distance.

And John had let him. For weeks, he had let Gale take his time, let him hover just close enough, let him almost reach for him but never quite. He had been patient even though patience was never his forte. But now that Gale was here, now that he was looking at John like he wanted something but didn’t know if he was allowed to have it, John wasn’t waiting anymore.

“Come here.”

Gale inhaled sharply.

John didn’t move.

Didn’t pull him in.

Didn’t force it.

He just offered.

And this time Gale took it.

He moved slowly at first, hesitant, like he still wasn’t sure if he should. But the second John reached for him, really reached, with both arms, steady and certain, Gale let out a shaky breath and melted.

John had been holding himself back for weeks.

Now, finally, he didn’t have to.

His arms wrapped around Gale, solid and unshaking, pulling him in, pressing him against his chest the way he had wanted to all those long nights when Gale had been too far away. Nights when he wasn’t even sure if he’d ever feel Gale again.

Gale didn’t resist.

Didn’t tense.

Didn’t hold himself back.

He just went.

Went into John’s space, into John’s arms, like he had been waiting for this just as much as John had. His body eased against him, his weight pressing fully into John, like he trusted him to hold him up, to keep him steady.

John exhaled slowly, one hand smoothing over Gale’s back, the other pressing warm and steady between his shoulder blades.

He felt Gale shudder and he knew it wasn’t from pain or exhaustion. It was from relief.

John squeezed his eyes shut, breathing him in.

Finally.

Finally, finally.

His hand moved up slowly, brushing against the back of Gale’s neck. Touching the blond baby hairs tenderly. His voice was low, warm. 

“What took you so long?”

Gale let out a soft, breathless sound, half a laugh, half a sigh.

Then, muffled against John’s blouse,

“I didn’t know if I could.”

John pulled back just enough to see his face. “And now?”

Gale swallowed, his fingers curling loosely in the fabric of John’s shirt. “Now I don’t want to stop.”

John’s chest ached.

He cupped the side of Gale’s face, thumb brushing over his cheekbone. “Then don’t.”

Gale inhaled shakily. His eyes were softer now. Still tired, still carrying everything he had been holding onto, but softer. More himself.

John tilted his forehead against Gale’s, voice quiet. “I wanted to give you space”

Gale’s breath caught. “I know John” a pause “don’t want space anymmore” 

John tightened his arms around him. “then stay right here.”

Gale sighed, exhaling long and slow, pressing himself closer. 

And John just held him.

Held him the way he had wanted to for so long.

Held him the way he needed to.

Held him until Gale finally, finally let go of the distance between them.

over the past few weeks my beloved moots @joeyalohadream @middlingmay @onyxsboxes @trekkiehood and @stars-remain2 have tagged me in last line tags and word finding games. i just wanted to say i appreciate u guys thinking abt little old me sm and i hope this makes up for those <3

[feyd-meowtha]

Salt and Vinegar (or a clegan seaside AU fragment I didn't know what to do with)

+++

“You’re gonna crack your head open on those rocks, you know,” John said. The blonde boy didn’t turn around, just kept his eyes on the ocean. 

“Screw you,” he replied a few moments later. He spoke just a little too quietly, his words whipped away in the wind. “You don’t know that.” 

“Yes, I do.” John bit his bottom lip, appraising the boy’s naked back. It was bony and covered in goosebumps, pink as raw chicken. He let out a breath, took a step backward and sat down on a bollard, the moist wood soaking through the back of his shorts.

The other boy was standing on the opposite side of the pier, his naked toes curled over the edge. His clothes were folded in a neat pile to his right. They’d be cold and damp when he put them back on, he'd been standing there for almost half an hour. John knew this because he’d been watching him from the chip shop as he mopped the floors. 

“For fuck’s sake,” John ran a hand through his hair which was matted into greasy clumps and crusted with salt. “We both know you aren’t gonna do it, so just put your top back on and give it up.” 

“You don’t know anything,” the blonde boy spat back, louder this time and broken by the machine gun clatter of chattering teeth. 

“Not really, no,” John replied, nodding his head despite the fact that the other boy still hadn’t looked at him. “But I saw you out here the other day with those guys. They were messing with you, man, they don’t expect you to actually do it.” 

“Why?” the boy yelled, turning around finally to face John. He had a pretty face, pouty lips like his sister’s baby doll. “Cus you all think I’m a fucking sissy?” 

John thought about it for a second then shook his head. His elbows rested on the tops of his legs and his chin on the backs of his hands. 

“Nah, not really,” he explained, “But tourists never actually do it. It would be stupid.” He paused, chewing on a shred of loose skin by this thumbnail and studying the strange boy’s face for signs of mental deficiency. “You stupid?” 

“Nah,” The boy shook his head. “I’m actually not.”

He was squinting at John through the fading daylight, his hand wreathed by pudgy clouds. It wasn’t a good sunset that day, the orange sherbet kind on the postcards in all the souvenir shops. It was a flat and dark, the sort of sunset that left John feeling like he’d been robbed of the best five minutes of his day. 

“Well, you coulda fooled me,” John replied. He scratched his bitten nails up and down the plasticy fabric of his shorts. “Those guys who were teasing you, did they tell you about that city girl a few years ago, the ginger one?” 

The boy shook his head. 

“Yeah, well, they should've. Couple older kids teased her like they teased you. Not the same kids but close enough. Brothers, sisters, cousins, that sort of thing. Anyway, she was stupid, that girl, brave as shit, I’ll give her that, but stupid, stupid enough to actually give it a go.”

“Shut up,” the boy said, swaying backwards and forwards on the balls on his feet. John couldn’t see what he was looking at but he didn’t need to, the jagged outline of those rocks was more familiar to him than his own face. 

“She walked down this pier but she didn’t walk anymore, after that,” John said, remembering blood on sand and the sound of a woman crying. 

“Rubbish,” the blonde boy said. His hands were curled into tight little balls at his side and John guessed he was about fourteen, maybe younger, just a little older than the girl had been. “You’re just trying to scare me like the others.” 

“My uncle’s in the volunteer coastguard” John replied. "You can ask him. He'll tell you.” 

“You’re chatting shit,” the blonde boy said, shaking his head and losing his balance for just a moment. He pitched forward, leaning a millimetre further over the water before flinching back from the edge. John wondered what he was thinking. If the boy was scared at all, he was doing a very good job of looking like he wasn't. 

“What’s your problem?” John asked, “Are you actually trying to fucking die?” He kissed his teeth, standing up and pacing up and down, the water-swollen planks groaning under his feet. “What a way to ruin the family holiday.” 

“I’m not on holiday,” the boy said gruffly. 

“Well, that’s weird, cus I know every person in this town and I don’t remember beating you at bloody sports day.” 

“Do you ever shut up?” the boy asked, but there was no real venom in it. John watched him take a deep breath, his ribs cracking open and then creaking shut. “I just moved here,” he explained. “I have to do this.”

“Why?” John asked, his hands were jammed in his pockets against the wind. It was May but the evenings still had bite. 

“I just have to, alright?” the boy said. He had a strange accent, flat and low, his vowels disappearing down his throat as he spoke them. John wondered where he had come from. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone came to Dormouth with the intention of staying forever. 

“Fucking hell,” John groaned before reaching his fingers under the hem of his football shirt and lifting it over his head. The blonde boy turned around, watching with confusion as John draped his top over the bollard and bent to untie his laces. 

“What are you doing?” he asked and his expression was so stony that John couldn’t help but laugh. 

“I’m saving your fucking life, is what I’m doing, you ungrateful little twat,” he said, shaking his shoulders and flexing his toes against the slippery timber underfoot. Then he held out his hand, beckoning for the boy to stand next to him on the opposite side of the pier. “You need a run up,” he explained, “otherwise you’ll never clear the rocks.” 

The boy didn’t move. “But if I take a run up I won’t be able to see what I’m jumping onto.” 

“I know, that’s the trick.  Otherwise everyone would be doing it,” John replied, rolling his shoulders. Stiff from a day hunched over the fryer, his neck crackled like fireworks. “That’s why you need me.”

“Why are you helping me?” the boy asked as he walked over to stand by John’s side. Now that he was closer, John could see the cold steel colour of his eyes and a thin white scar that ran from the corner of his mouth up toward his ear. 

“What kind of question is that?” John asked, taking the boy’s hand in his own. The boy flinched, trying to pull away, but John held tight. “I just don’t wanna watch you fucking maim yourself, alright? I’d only have to jump in and save you anyway.” 

The smaller boy didn’t reply. 

“Okay,” John said, jiggling his feet to keep from shivering. “Show time. You trust me, little man?” 

The boy nodded, then frowned. “You can’t call me that, I’m not that much shorter than you.” 

John laughed, swinging their arms between them and giving the boy’s hand a squeeze. “Alright little man,” he said, “just run as fast as you can and jump from right there, like you’re aiming for those boats.” John pointed toward the third bollard from the left. “Keep your knees together and don’t let go of my hand.” 

“Okay,” the boy nodded. “If you’re messing with me, you’re a real prick.” 

“Obviously,” John rolled his eyes. Then they jumped. 

+++

I am dedicating this one to lovely peeps who have tagged me in writing things that I have not done over the last couple months. @shipstorms @swifty-fox @triggerlil @luckydeuce and any others that I have missed, thank yous very much for having thought of little old me while I have not been writing so much <3

As for this particular scenario, I have no idea. I was just hit by this scene so that was what I wrote. Maybe I'll continue it into something actual, I dunno (I think its obvious to everyone that ideas are struggling to stick with me at the moment)

[xmysweetcreaturex]

Unlucky Bucky✨

By: mysweetcreature on Ao3

LINK TO FIC HERE

Summary:

“This is John. We were-” Gale starts.

“Lovers.” Bucky cuts in, causing Gale to elbow him in the ribs before he finishes,“-friends in college.”

“Nothing about what we did was friendly, Buck.” John argues back like a petulant child.

“Bucky!” Gale admonishes, sweat beginning to collect in his brow despite the ocean breeze blowing his hair every which way.

“I mean seriously- since when do you let friends fing-” John is unable to finish his final crude remark on a count of Gale’s hand coming up to slap over his mouth.

Or: The one where Gale and John are staying at the same resort on vacation after not seeing each other for almost 10 years.

Word Count: 6,203

LINK TO THE OFFICIAL “UNLUCKY BUCKY” PLAYLIST <3

©️ @polifandom my wonderful beta and bestest friend, luv u 4 ever meegs!

[pxnsneverland]

Riding With Devils | biker!Austin Butler x OC (part 1)

(gif source: shadowhaert)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

plot summary: Sophie Ann Sutton appears to have the perfect life as a high school senior in a small town during the 1960s. With straight A's, a thriving social life, and a scholarship to her dream college, she feels invincible—especially with her loyal best friend by her side. But everything changes when she crosses paths with Austin, the dangerously charming son of the local biker gang's leader. Their worlds collide in an electrifying romance that defies all expectations, pulling Sophie into a whirlwind of rebellion, excitement and danger.

pairings: austin butler x oc

word count: 4295

warnings/notes: I decided to start another biker!Austin story after re-watching The Bikeriders. Hope y'all enjoy :)

Chapter 1: The Unlikely Knight

It was the kind of decision Sophie Sutton would later describe as "temporary insanity," but at eleven thirty on a Tuesday night, it felt like the most rational choice in the world.

"Come on, Sophie. One night of breaking curfew isn't going to derail your entire future," Maggie insisted, leaning against Sophie's bedroom doorframe with the casual confidence of someone who had never worried about college applications or parental expectations.

Sophie glanced at her desk where her half-finished English essay sat beneath a stack of college brochures. "My parents would literally murder me if they found out."

"They won't find out. They're dead asleep by ten every night. You've said it yourself a million times." Maggie flopped onto Sophie's meticulously made bed, disrupting the decorative pillows arranged by size and color. "Besides, Jimmy will be there."

The mention of Jimmy Carson—with his quiet intensity and habit of quoting poetry when he thought no one was listening—made Sophie's stomach flip in a way that was both thrilling and terrifying.

"That's supposed to convince me?" Sophie asked, though she was already mentally cataloging what she would wear.

"Don't pretend you haven't been stealing glances at him in AP Lit for months." Maggie grinned. "Plus, Mel's Diner has the best milkshakes in three counties."

Sophie adjusted her pearl earring—a sixteenth birthday gift from her grandmother—and caught her reflection in the vanity mirror. The perfect daughter. Student council president. Early acceptance candidate for Radcliffe. What would happen if, just once, she didn't live up to the image?

"Fine," she said, surprised by the steadiness in her voice. "But we're back by one, no exceptions."

Maggie squealed and threw her arms around Sophie. "This is going to be the best Tuesday night of your life, I promise."

As Sophie changed into a sky-blue dress with a Peter Pan collar—rebellious enough to sneak out, not rebellious enough to abandon her standards completely—she couldn't shake the feeling that something fundamental was about to shift in her carefully constructed world. The descent down the trellis outside her window was less graceful than Sophie had imagined. Romance novels never mentioned splinters or the undignified scramble to keep one's dress from catching on the wooden lattice. When her feet finally touched the dewy grass, she felt a rush of adrenaline that was equal parts exhilaration and terror.

"See? Easy as pie," Maggie whispered, already waiting below. Her friend's carefree smile gleamed in the moonlight, a stark contrast to the knot tightening in Sophie's stomach.

"If my father hears that car start..." Sophie murmured, glancing back at the darkened windows of her house. Each one represented a different disaster scenario in her mind—her mother's disappointed sigh, her father's lecture about responsibility and trust.

"That's why we're walking to the corner. Jimmy's picking us up there." Maggie linked her arm through Sophie's and pulled her across the lawn. "God, you look like you're walking to your execution. It's midnight milkshakes, not armed robbery."

But to Sophie, the weight of this small rebellion felt enormous. Seventeen years of carefully following every rule had created deep grooves in her psyche, and stepping out of them felt physically disorienting. Still, with each step away from her house, a strange lightness began to spread through her chest. When Jimmy's battered blue Chevy appeared at the corner, headlights dimmed to conspirator levels, Sophie's heart performed a complicated gymnastic routine. He leaned across the passenger seat to push open the door, and the interior light briefly illuminated his face—those serious eyes, the slight curl at the corner of his mouth that suggested he knew secrets about the world she was still learning.

"Ladies," he said, his voice deeper than it ever sounded in the fluorescent glare of classrooms. "Your chariot awaits."

Maggie nudged Sophie forward. "Shotgun for the first-time rule-breaker."

Sophie slid into the passenger seat, hyperaware of the worn leather against her bare legs, the faint smell of pine and something uniquely Jimmy—like old books and guitar strings.

"I wasn't sure you'd actually come," he said quietly as Maggie climbed into the back.

"Neither was I," Sophie admitted, surprising herself with her honesty.

Jimmy's smile then—slow and genuine—made the risk suddenly worth it. "Well, I'm glad you did."

As they drove through the sleeping town, Sophie watched familiar landmarks transform in the midnight hour. The courthouse square, normally bustling with activity, stood silent and dignified. The storefronts along Main Street, with their darkened windows, seemed to hold their breath alongside her. For the first time, Sophie felt like she was seeing her hometown as it really was, not as the backdrop to her perfect-daughter performance.

***

Mel's Diner glowed like a lighthouse at the edge of town—neon signs buzzing in the darkness, promising warmth and secrets and possibilities. Sophie had driven past it hundreds of times but had never been inside after ten o'clock, when the respectable families cleared out and the booths filled with night shift workers and teenagers with nowhere better to be.

"Here we are," Jimmy announced, pulling into a spot near the entrance. "Home of the famous Blue Ribbon milkshake and the only decent jukebox left in Millfield."

Sophie hesitated before opening her door.

"Having second thoughts?" Jimmy asked, his voice gentle.

"About a dozen," Sophie admitted. "But I'm still going in."

The bell above the door chimed as they entered, and several heads turned their way. Sophie felt instantly conspicuous in her sky-blue dress, like she was wearing a sign that read "Good Girl Breaking Rules." The vinyl booths were cracked in places, patched with silver duct tape that caught the overhead lights. A burly man in a trucker cap gave her an appraising look before returning to his coffee. In the corner booth, a group of leather-jacketed boys from the technical school across town played cards, cigarette smoke creating a hazy cloud above their heads. None of them wore pressed clothes or pearl earrings.

"Well, if it isn't Miss Student Council," drawled a raspy voice from behind the counter. The waitress—Doreen according to her name tag—had teased blonde hair and knowing eyes that seemed to see right through Sophie's façade. "Slumming it with us common folk tonight?"

Sophie felt her cheeks flush hot. "I—I just wanted a milkshake."

"We all want something, honey," Doreen replied with a wink, sliding three sticky menus across the counter.

Maggie, completely at ease, sauntered toward an empty booth. "C'mon, Sophie. Stop standing there like you're waiting for someone to check your hall pass."

Jimmy's hand found the small of Sophie's back, guiding her forward with a gentle pressure that sent electricity up her spine. "Don't mind Doreen," he murmured. "She gives everyone a hard time."

As they slid into the booth, Sophie noticed a girl about their age with jet-black hair and multiple ear piercings watching them from the counter. The girl's eyes locked with Sophie's, and her red-painted lips curled into something between a smirk and a sneer.

"That's Roxanne," Jimmy explained, following Sophie's gaze. "She's in my art class. Talented, but..."

"But what?" Sophie asked.

"Let's just say she's got reasons to be suspicious of anyone from our side of town."

The jukebox in the corner switched to a Janis Joplin song Sophie's mother would have called "inappropriate," its raw emotion filling the diner. Two mechanics still in their work clothes began arguing loudly about a carburetor, their voices carrying across the room.

"What can I getcha?" Doreen appeared at their table, pencil poised above her order pad, chewing gum with methodical precision.

"Three Blue Ribbon specials," Maggie ordered confidently. "And a basket of those chili fries everyone talks about."

"Comin' right up, princess," Doreen said, her eyes lingering on Sophie's pearl earrings.

When she walked away, Sophie whispered, "I feel like I'm wearing a costume to a party where everyone knows I don't belong."

"That's because you're still playing by their rules," Jimmy said, reaching across the table to touch her hand. His fingers were stained with ink, evidence of the poetry he was always scribbling. "Maybe tonight isn't about belonging. Maybe it's about figuring out who you are when no one's watching."

Sophie opened her mouth to respond to Jimmy when the rumble of an engine cut through the diner's ambient noise. It started as a distant growl, quickly growing to a thunderous roar that vibrated the silverware on their table. The jukebox seemed to fade into background noise as heads turned toward the large windows facing the parking lot. A single headlight sliced through the darkness, illuminating the lot in stark white light before coming to rest directly in front of the diner's entrance. The motorcycle's engine gave one final, defiant rev before falling silent.

"Oh hell," Jimmy muttered, his hand tensing on Sophie's.

The rider dismounted with fluid grace that suggested complete ownership of not just the machine, but the very space around him. Even from inside, Sophie could see his broad shoulders beneath a worn leather jacket, the confident tilt of his head as he removed his helmet. Blonde hair caught the neon glow of the diner sign, creating a halo effect that seemed almost deliberately ironic.

"Who is that?" Sophie whispered, though something in her already knew the answer.

"Austin Butler," Maggie breathed, a hint of both fear and fascination in her voice. "His family runs the Devil's Mark motorcycle club out past the quarry."

The diner's bell chimed again, this time with an ominous finality. Austin Butler stepped inside, scanning the room with electric blue eyes that took inventory of every person present. His gaze lingered for a moment on their booth, a slight curl forming at the corner of his mouth—not quite a smile, more like recognition of something interesting.

"Evening, Doreen," he called out, his voice surprisingly soft yet carrying the unmistakable weight of someone accustomed to being heard. "The usual."

"Coming right up, trouble," Doreen responded with none of the edge she'd directed at Sophie. Instead, there was something almost maternal in her tone.

The card game in the corner had paused, the players nodding respectfully as Austin passed. He returned the gesture with casual authority before sliding onto a stool at the counter, his back to the room yet somehow still commanding it.

"Aw hell," Jimmy said under his breath.

"What?" Sophie asked, even as she felt a strange electricity humming beneath her skin. "Is he dangerous?"

"Not exactly," Jimmy glanced nervously toward the counter. "But where Austin goes, the rest of the Devils usually follow. And they don't exactly appreciate people from our neighborhood in their territory."

"This is their territory?" Sophie's eyes widened. "It's just a diner."

"After midnight, it might as well be their clubhouse.”

Sophie watched as Roxanne slid off her stool and approached Austin, leaning in to whisper something in his ear. Austin's gaze flicked up from Roxanne, looking directly at Sophie. The diner seemed to shrink around them as their eyes connected across the room. Everything else—the clatter of dishes, the murmur of voices, the hum of the refrigerator—faded to white noise. Sophie couldn't look away, caught in the gravity of those startlingly blue eyes that seemed to see right through her carefully constructed façade. A knowing half-smile played at the corner of his mouth, as if he recognized something in her that she herself hadn't yet discovered.

"He's looking at you," Maggie whispered, her voice tinged with equal parts excitement and alarm.

"He's not," Sophie replied automatically, though she hadn't broken the eye contact. She felt her cheeks flush warm, her heart drumming an unfamiliar rhythm against her ribs.

Jimmy cleared his throat loudly. "Can we focus on enjoying our night without worrying about the local criminal element?"

Doreen arrived with their milkshakes—towering concoctions of ice cream and whipped cream in frosted glasses—breaking the moment. Sophie lowered her eyes to the table, suddenly fascinated by the pattern of water rings on the laminate surface.

"Something wrong with your milkshake, honey?" Doreen asked, noticing Sophie's distraction.

"No, it's perfect," Sophie replied, taking a deliberate sip through her straw. The sweetness hit her tongue, momentarily grounding her back in reality.

***

The next hour passed in a blur of conversation and laughter that felt increasingly forced on Jimmy's part. Every few minutes, Sophie would feel the weight of Austin's gaze, and despite her best intentions, she'd find herself looking back. Each time, he'd be watching her with that same inscrutable expression, as if she were a puzzle he was piecing together from across the room.

"I need to use the ladies' room," Maggie announced suddenly, sliding out of the booth. She gave Sophie a meaningful look. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do while I'm gone."

"That leaves a pretty wide range of options," Sophie replied with a nervous laugh.

As soon as Maggie disappeared down the hallway, Jimmy shifted closer on the vinyl seat. "Finally, a moment alone," he said, his voice dropping to what he clearly thought was a romantic tone. His arm stretched across the back of the booth, fingers brushing Sophie's shoulder.

"We're hardly alone," Sophie pointed out, gesturing to the half-full diner.

"You know what I mean." Jimmy's hand moved from her shoulder to her hair, twirling a strand around his finger. "I've wanted to get you alone for months."

Sophie leaned away slightly. "Jimmy, I—"

"You know, I always thought you were too uptight," he continued as if she hadn't spoken. "But sneaking out tonight? That shows there's more to Sophie Sutton than perfect grades and student council meetings." His hand dropped to her knee, warm and insistent. "I bet there's a lot you'd do if you just let yourself go a little."

"Jimmy, please," Sophie shifted away, uncomfortable with his sudden forwardness. "I'm not interested in—"

"Come on," he pressed, moving closer until she was trapped against the wall of the booth. "I know Maggie told you I would be here tonight. And you insisted on sitting in the front of the car with me. You sat next to me in this booth instead of with Maggie. Tell me you weren't looking for something more." His fingers tightened on her knee, inching higher along her thigh.

Sophie placed her hand firmly on his, stopping its progress. "I said no, Jimmy."

Across the room, Austin's posture changed subtly. Though his back was still to their booth, something in the set of his shoulders suggested heightened awareness. His head tilted slightly, like a predator catching a scent on the wind.

"Don't be such a prude," Jimmy whispered, frustration edging into his voice as he leaned closer. His breath smelled of chocolate and something sharper—had he been drinking? She hadn’t even noticed the scent in the car above the overpowering smell of pine. "Everyone knows good girls like you are just waiting for someone to break through that ice."

"I think you misunderstood why I came tonight," Sophie said, trying to keep her voice steady despite the panic building in her chest. She glanced toward the hallway, willing Maggie to return.

Jimmy's hand slid around her waist, pulling her closer. "No one's watching, Sophie. You can drop the perfect girl act."

"It's not an act," she insisted, pushing against his chest. "And I'd like you to stop."

"Just one kiss," he persisted, his grip tightening. "Then tell me you don't want more."

Before Sophie could respond, a shadow fell across their table. Jimmy froze, his expression shifting from determination to alarm as Austin Butler loomed over them, his presence filling the small space like a thundercloud.

"The lady said no," Austin stated quietly, his voice carrying an undercurrent of danger despite its conversational tone. "Twice, actually. I've been counting."

Jimmy's face flushed red. "This is none of your business, Butler."

Austin's smile didn't reach his eyes. "See, that's where you're wrong." He slid his hands into his pockets with casual menace. "When a girl says no in Mel's after midnight, it becomes my business."

"We were just talking," Jimmy protested, though his hand had already retreated from Sophie's waist.

"Didn't look like talking from where I was sitting." Austin's gaze shifted to Sophie, softening fractionally. "You okay?"

Sophie nodded, unable to find her voice under the intensity of those blue eyes. Up close, she could see a small scar bisecting his left eyebrow, giving his face an asymmetry that only enhanced its appeal.

"Good." Austin returned his attention to Jimmy. "I think it's time for you to switch seats. Give the lady some breathing room."

Jimmy glared at Austin, then back at Sophie, his jaw working with barely contained anger. The diner had gone quiet, all eyes on their booth.

"Fine," Jimmy finally spat, sliding out abruptly. "You want to play damsel in distress with a guy like him? Be my guest."

He stood, fishing his car keys from his pocket with trembling hands. "I'm not sticking around to get my face rearranged for a girl who can't make up her mind."

"Jimmy, wait—" Sophie started, suddenly aware of the predicament this would create.

Jimmy's voice had turned ugly. "Maybe he can give you a ride on his motorcycle. I'm sure Daddy would love that."

With that, he stormed toward the exit, shouldering past Maggie who was returning from the restroom.

"Jimmy? Where are you—" Maggie called after him, but the slam of the diner door cut her off. Through the windows, they watched him peel out of the parking lot, tires screeching against asphalt.

Maggie slid back into the booth, eyes wide. "What just happened?"

"Your date decided to bail," Austin said, still standing beside their table. "Left you ladies without a ride home."

Sophie felt the blood drain from her face. It was nearly one in the morning—her curfew deadline—and they were stranded miles from home. Her carefully orchestrated rebellion was spiraling into disaster.

"I can call my brother," Maggie suggested, though her expression betrayed her doubt. "Though he'll definitely tell my parents..."

Austin seemed to consider something, then turned toward the corner booth. "Hey, Ray," he called to one of the leather-jacketed card players. "Feel like a midnight escort mission?"

A muscular guy with a neatly trimmed beard looked up from his cards. "What'd you have in mind, boss?"

"These ladies need a ride home. Safe and sound, no detours."

Ray studied Sophie and Maggie for a moment, then nodded. "Sure thing." He collected his cards and stood, revealing his impressive height.

"I don't know..." Sophie hesitated, looking between Austin and Ray.

"Look," Austin said, his voice dropping so only she could hear. "You've got two options. Call your parents and explain why you're at Mel's after midnight, or let us get you home before anyone knows you were gone."

Sophie's green eyes locked with Austin's blue ones, searching for any sign of deception. Her brain ran through a dozen scenarios at once, each ending in disaster. But something in his steady gaze made her hesitate before rejecting his offer outright. "Why would you help us?" she asked quietly.

Austin's mouth quirked up at one corner. "Maybe I'm a sucker for damsels in distress."

"I'm not a damsel," Sophie replied automatically.

His smile widened, revealing a flash of perfect teeth. "Clearly." He leaned slightly closer, his voice dropping further. "Look, Princess, I don't make a habit of leaving girls stranded in the middle of the night. Even ones from the right side of the tracks."

Maggie tugged at Sophie's sleeve. "We should take the ride, Soph. My parents will kill me if they find out."

Sophie glanced at Ray, who stood patiently by the door, then back at Austin. "Just a ride home? No... detours?"

"Scout's honor," Austin said, raising two fingers in a mock salute that somehow suggested he'd never been anywhere near the Boy Scouts.

"Fine," Sophie conceded, reaching for her purse. "How much do we owe for the milkshakes?"

Austin waved her off. "On the house tonight. Right, Doreen?"

The waitress nodded from behind the counter. "Sure thing, honey. You girls get home safe now."

Outside, the night air had cooled considerably, raising goosebumps on Sophie's bare arms. Ray was already waiting beside his own motorcycle.

Austin walked to his motorcycle, a gleaming piece of machinery decorated with paintings of devils, skulls and fire. He pulled a helmet off one of his handlebars and handed it to Sophie. “Put that on.”

Sophie stared at the helmet, her fingers hesitating before making contact with the smooth surface. "Wait, I thought Ray was giving us a ride."

"Ray's taking your friend," Austin said, nodding toward Maggie who was already being helped onto the back of Ray's bike. "You're with me."

"I didn't agree to that," Sophie protested, but her voice lacked conviction even to her own ears.

Austin's eyes gleamed with amusement. "Would you prefer to walk? It's only about five miles."

Sophie glanced at her watch—12:47. Her window of plausible deniability was closing fast. "I don't even know you."

"Sure you do. Austin Butler. I sit behind you in assembly every Thursday. You give those speeches about school spirit and community service." He swung his leg over the motorcycle with effortless grace. "You never look back at the last row, but we're there."

The fact that he'd noticed her, had been watching her all this time while remaining invisible to her, sent an unexpected thrill through Sophie's body.

"Come on, Princess. Decision time." He patted the seat behind him. "Your reputation or your curfew. Which matters more tonight?"

Sophie took a deep breath and put on the helmet, adjusting it over her carefully styled hair. The weight of it felt foreign, like a crown made of different metal than she was used to wearing.

"Hold tight," Austin instructed as she awkwardly mounted the bike behind him, her dress riding up despite her attempts to keep it modest. "And I mean tight. This isn't like riding in Daddy's Cadillac."

Sophie cautiously placed her hands on his sides, barely making contact. Austin laughed, the sound vibrating through his back. He reached behind and grabbed her wrists, pulling her arms all the way around his waist until she was pressed against him, her chest flush against his back.

"That's better," he said, and Sophie was grateful the helmet hid her burning cheeks.

The motorcycle roared to life beneath them, a primal vibration that traveled up through Sophie's body, settling somewhere deep and unfamiliar. As they pulled out of the parking lot, Ray and Maggie following close behind, Sophie instinctively tightened her grip around Austin's waist. The town blurred past them, transformed by speed and moonlight into something magical and forbidden. Wind whipped at her dress, and Sophie found herself not caring about the state of her hair or whether her hemline was appropriate. The exhilaration of movement, of freedom, overwhelmed everything else.

Austin took a corner faster than necessary, causing Sophie to press even closer against him. She could feel the solid planes of his body, smell the leather of his jacket mixed with something distinctly male. Nothing in her carefully ordered life had prepared her for this—the raw physicality of being pressed against a stranger, trusting him with her safety while breaking every rule she'd been raised to follow. They reached the edge of Sophie's neighborhood far too quickly. Austin slowed the motorcycle to a quiet purr, rolling to a stop at the corner where Jimmy had picked them up hours earlier. It felt like days had passed rather than mere hours—as if she'd crossed some invisible boundary in her life with no possibility of return.

"Which house?" Austin asked, his voice low enough not to carry in the silent street.

Sophie pointed toward the white colonial three doors down. "The one with the trellis."

Austin's eyebrows raised slightly. "The trellis, huh? Didn't figure you for the Romeo and Juliet type."

"I'm not," Sophie said quickly, then hesitated. "Well, I wasn't. Until tonight."

He killed the engine, the sudden silence almost deafening after the constant rumble. Behind them, Ray pulled up with Maggie, who dismounted with surprising agility for someone who'd never been on a motorcycle before.

"That was amazing!" Maggie whispered, eyes bright with excitement. "We should do this every Tuesday!"

Sophie shot her a warning look before carefully swinging her leg over the bike, mindful of her dress. The world felt strangely still after the speed and vibration, as if her body was still moving while the ground remained stationary. "Thanks for the ride," she said, removing the helmet and handing it to Austin. Her hair tumbled down in wild disarray, freed from its usual perfect styling.

Austin didn't immediately take the helmet. Instead, he studied her face with an intensity that made her breath catch. "You know, you look different when you're not trying so hard."

"Different how?" Sophie asked before she could stop herself.

"Real." The word hung between them, simple yet profound.

Ray cleared his throat. "We should roll out, boss. Patrol car's been making rounds near the park."

Austin nodded, finally accepting the helmet from Sophie's hands. Their fingers brushed, the brief contact sending an electric current up her arm. "You should get inside, Princess. Wouldn't want to push your luck on your first night of rebellion."

"It's not my first," Sophie found herself saying, though it absolutely was.

Austin's smile was knowing. "No? Then maybe I'll see you around the next time you decide to break the rules."

Before she could respond, he kickstarted the motorcycle back to life. With a casual salute that somehow managed to be both mocking and respectful, he and Ray pulled away from the curb, their engines gradually fading into the night.

Stay tuned for part 2!! Click HERE to view!

[therealslimshakespeare]

|| Miming Normalcy

Pairing: Gale x OC (Maureen Kendeigh)

Note: for everyone who, last year, begged for more Gale smut in this universe, here it is. It had to wait in drafts with all its friends due to needing some other segments published to make this one make sense, although this one is all porn, little plot. No for real, it’s nasty af and this boy hasn’t gone to therapy but there’s also love. Lots of love. And smut. Again, not much plot to be missed here 😏

Warnings: nasty af, if this ain’t your jam, please avail yourself of the exit, I get fully it. 18+ for smut, also vague allusions to past abuse, gender confusion and the inner turmoil of a Bi man in the 1940’s, Gale Cleven being a dream sub boy after a long days work? Uh, that’s probs all? Squirting? No PIV sec just handies, etc. If that’s not your jam, again, feel free to bail 💋

Circa: 1946

On these days Maureen often picks him up. The bike is not a fitting mode of conveyance for a man moonlighting as a respectable officer, and though he often gets ribbed by his new navy buddies for his missus picking him up like a kid at school: Maureen is a busy woman. She goes about town, she works at the school and she needs the car while Gale is trapped at one place for work, or else up in the sky, for nine hours a day -what’s he need the car for during that time?

And something about the easy-hearted ribbing does him good, no one knows him here, not well enough to think twice about being delicate or nice or to take care not to push his buttons.

Gale likes how utterly regular he is here, he likes what an old man he’s become, another veteran who thinks he knows best and already has a wife who pulls up and ensures he has to go home so he can’t go to the bar with the cadets. Maureen plays her part admirably, pulling up to the sidewalk with her end-of-the-day cosmetics glowing just a tad too shiny from the salt air and heat, with her eyes happy to see him and her mouth authoritative about not letting the meatloaf get cold in a way that scares his cadets worse than anything he could ever do.

Gale enjoys enacting the sheepish dip of his head into the car, the wasteful blast of coolant on his blushing cheeks as he folds himself into the passenger seat: the future evening of word games and domesticity and sexless reserve that his boys anticipate for him.

This too feels like a game, one just humiliating enough to make him feel utterly known, just dangerous enough to feel alive, abundantly tender enough to make him feel cherished.

Maureen drives all this way back and forth, morning and evening along their coastal highway, to ferry him to work and she does it because they’re married and she for one likes to act like it.

One handed she pulls them away from the curb, white glove on a white lacquered wheel, she’s fucking perfect and Gale knows what’s beneath those gloves and his mouth waters at this game once more. One handed she pulls away and the other hand waves to his boys, self aware and chirpy and pitying all at once at their bachelordom. Single handedly she steers away into the roundabout lanes that form the circle in front of the base while waving, single handedly she drives the car into the bend when her gloved and waving hand drops and grips Gale’s crotch like a loving vice.

Hot electric reasoning shoot up his thighs and he feels like he’s breathing for the first time today, first time at least since he made his last touchdown today. Alive, wheels skidding along a tarmac, cadet scared shitless and proud in front, with Gale as the useless clapping squad in back.

Such was the life of a flight instructor.

Her hand makes it all very real, very satisfying, something worthwhile. He feels his blood rush. The feeling is not just in his thighs anymore.

“Wave to your boys, dear.” she teases him but her hand is no joking matter and it tightens against him until he manages a fuck-off sort of wave and Maureen vocalizes a small sound of happy approval before gunning it onto the Boulevard.

And that’s Gale’s day done, no more need to be good or perfect, he’s waved the boys off and put in his shift and he’s done now. He feels like he’s melting into the seat, his head thudding back against the leather headrest -a deep red like all the accents in this white car’s interior, except for the white steering wheel, and even it juts out from a white lacquered steering dash. Maureen is still spinning the damn well and easily grasping him with the other gloved hand. His legs fall further open, his droopy eyes utterly transfixed by the glint of her wrist watch on her tanned skin, peeking out from the gloves hem.

“Fuck.” Gale heaves out at the sight, he loves this little life they play at, he loves her gloves and her old army watch; the way she drives a car like a man and palms at him before he’s even waved goodbye to his green recruits. He tries to hold on to this moment, the feel of her palm rubbing circles on his cockhead, dragging his slacks across tender skin in a circle that mimics that of her other hand taking the wheel around a turn, the feel of salt air hitting his nose when they turn into the highway, headed home, no groceries to be gotten, no friends to see. He loves this little life and he tries to remember that, to remind himself he’s got nothing to be running from as often as he does. Who’d want anything else. It makes no sense at all. He’s never going to again.

His heart clenches at the lie. What kinda fucked is he to leave this. Because he’s going to again, just like he did three months ago and seven before that. He can almost feel the crawling itch spreading beneath his skin.

“Don’t cum in my car.” Maureen registers the tenseness that takes over him, and Gale’s head that was growing all too jumbled with itchy thoughts, suddenly stills into a muffled fog, the itch flees from his forearms and calves and instead he can feel his cock wagging against her knuckles in a pathetic attempt to dribble out a little more of the pressure. One crease of a thigh feels wet, he must be leaking everywhere.

They pass the Seashell Motel’s freshly painted sign with its blue and pink lettering and he knows he’s got ten minutes ahead. He’s not at all sure he can hold on but then: first day of work when she first did this -first time she picked him up and grabbed his cock and told him to wave and then drove one handedly home- he had talked back and told her to stop touching him if she wanted him to last.

“Thought you prized discipline, Major Cleven.” his wife had retorted, “Or maybe that was only in the Air Force.”

With all the hurt pride of a newly minted Navy man, Gale had taken that personally and gritted his teeth and dug bloody crescents into his palms, braced his feet to the floorboards and when Maureen put it in park he had staggered out hard as a rock onto their home dock and into their boat house and hadn’t made it three feet before she flicked open his belt, pulled him out, dropped to her knees, tapped his puffy pink head on her lower lip and he’d shot his load on her tongue.

He’d not cum in the car, though.

He won’t today either, he puffs out his cheeks and he sees Maureen dare to look away from the flat stretch of road to glance his way, he looks stupid and she looks so loving and then her eyes flick back to the road and he lets his breath out in a low whistle. It calms the inevitable spurt between his legs but it also clears the fog in his head, six miles out from home and he’s starting to think thoughts again and if he was a man of impulse he might whine over that development.

The sharp bolt of pleasure that is Maureen’s nailless thumb thing into his slit banishes them and he groans, thankful and close, it gets lost in the road noise and the rushing delight of the sea air roaring through the open windows. She’s going far faster than fifty five miles an hour and Gale lolls his head to the side and watches her firm chin and the posture of her driving and his heart thuds hard in his chest. Her nose that turns up just so.

He wants to kiss it. He has become a man of impulse in some ways. So long as those ways aren’t too pathetic. Hauling himself upright and over the middle seat and into her space and turning the face of a driving motorist to his own so he can, in fact, kiss her nose, doesn’t seem pathetic at all, it’s risky and it’s rash and Gale loves the way she doesn’t even flinch or pull away. When he senses the kiss has lasted long enough to endanger others if not themselves, he pulls away and Maureen’s eyes are on him briefly and not the road when he pulls out of her line of sight.

“My sweet boy.” she murmurs and looks back to the road, the hand once happily torturing him, securing him in place, tethering him to the earth, raises up and pets his cheek before her gloved fingers slip into his mouth and pull his head down to the seat, to her lap. He goes, lets her slide her fingers over his tongue, realizing the salty wetness already there is his precum. Gale wishes he could suck her off on some coastal road trip, he closes his eyes, feels the rough fingers thrusting closer down his tongue, tastes the salt, imagines it and his hips cant futile and desperate into the air.

“That’s it, that’s it, feels so nice, such a warm mouth, huh?” she mutters above him and he is fully afloat now, it feels so good with the car seat vibrating beneath his back, his cock drooling uselessly against his leg beneath his trousers and Maureen thrusting her fingers into his mouth. “You’re gonna make me cum.” she gasps suddenly, almost a reprimand she sounds so surprised, Gale just moans and almost falls to the floorboard when she turns without shifting down, the pitted road a sure sign they’re home. She takes her spit soaked hand and grasps the gear shift, slowing the car properly for the residential stretch of gravel and Gale’s heart clenches at the sight of her grasping the thing. He’s fully lost it and he laughs at himself.

She laughs too. Fully in on it, but far more eager and desperate than him as the car lurches to a stop.

“Do I need to get your door?” she sounds perfectly willing and after regaining thought for enough moments to remember he can in fact sit up, open his door and walk out without her, Gale grunts in the negative. “Alright.” she allows and he does just that, with a grunt and a hiss at how alive his body is and he follows her out of the glinting late afternoon sun, across the dock, along their own little ramp with its pretty painted decals and into the bobbing little structure they call home.

The door clicks and Gale almost hits his knees before she tells him to. She does though, kindly but he’s already going and on a technicality he might be forgiven as obeying an order but they both know he was at it first.

“I need to cum.” she tells him and part of the usual instructions are left out and he is puzzled by that. Puzzled still when she is right up to him, undoing her pleated trousers right at eye level, his head knocking back into the small piece of wall furniture that holds their mail on top and their various boots and shoes below. Puzzled when she shucks her pants and nothing else, props a foot up on the side piece furniture and instead of dragging his face to what he can see is a glistening mass of auburn curls, just grabs his hair and keeps his face bent back, it’s so reminiscent, so male he feels the want surge down his spine once more and, no longer supported by a car bench seat, his drawn up balls throb in his slacks with an excruciatingly acute need.

He focuses on the familiar yet mildly wrong hand in his hair, he zones in on the glittery pink expanse of her, folded and open and womanly, he licks his lips with surety that he can taste her by mere proximity, and quietly looses his mind when she puts her gloved hand back to his mouth and tells him, “Help me take them off.”

Cotton mouthed and with a tongue weighing a ton, Gale nips at the glove’s fingers, careful in his haste not to nip the fingers themselves and after a few rushed and failed attempts he cools himself and tries again, resolute and determined like he should be and he hears her hum in approval as the fabric peels off.

“Perfect.” she commends him, her typical hoarse voice gone so deep it makes him shudder, and her hand slips out of the glove that is still clenched between his teeth and it comes out a perfect patchwork of ugly white scars on tanned flesh and Gale longs for them to be near his mouth again. “Drop it, darling.” she tells him and it takes a minute for the order to sift through his faux realities but it does in time, and he lets the glove go from between his teeth. It lands on the floor between them, sodden and unheeded. “I need these slick.” she’s presenting her bare fingers to him and he pulls against the tug of her other hand in his hair to obey, it makes her laugh at his eagerness and he knows she’s pleased but she is the one to bring them to his face, to work with the tilt she has on his head, to breach his lips and slide them along his tongue.

He moans like he’s the one getting blown. He lets it be messy, like he learned how, let’s the spit collect and let’s it slick her up like she liked, lets the nosies slap about their small home and his eyes close to appreciate that wet chorus like he’s not the one doing it. He feels so good he could float away on it.

“Open your eyes, sweet boy, open them for me.” Maureen’s one leg must be aching from holding all her weight, her other still propped up in his face by the foot near his head. “Need you to watch this, see how much you make me want you- how good you are at this, need you not to miss your reward.”

Gale licks his lips, ready for his hair to be released, for the tug to bend his neck downwards, for the salty sweet taste of a woman on his tongue.

But she doesn’t move him, she keeps him there and the hand on his mouth leaves and comes between her own legs, right at his line of sight, and there she thrashes her spit soaked hand against the puffy bud between her legs and a flick of the wetness flies and hits his cheek. He can hear the sound he makes. It’s inhuman and wanting and dark and he cannot claim it as his own at this moment but he thinks he won’t be able to breathe much longer if she won’t let him taste her, he thinks it’ll break his heart if she ends this little fiction right now and lets him lick her. He doesn’t know what he wants but he feels utterly known right now as his wife holds his face up and -well if she were a man, if she were Bucky, if he were Bucky, he’d call it jacking off, she’s jacking of on his face. He can’t seem to even swallow his own spit at the moment.

Maureen sounds like she’s torturing herself quite briefly, there’s no way she can keep up that frantic friction of her hand for long but it seems to be killing her as is and she starts letting out little cries that are nothing like the sweet helpless ones he digs out of her womb when he’s inside her. “Here it is baby, here it comes, so good for me, so good you’ve made me crazy, open that pretty mouth Gingerale, open that mouth up so I can—“

Claim it, yes yes, he thinks, claim it, coat it, fucking ruin me please.

“Mine, you’re mine.” she swears to him and he turns it vicious and jealous in his head just to make the high last longer, to add to the effect and then to his shock, he feels the wet spray of her on his face, her hand still rubbing frantically as little clear spurts of pleasure fling out and across his face, wet and salty and it could be a man or a hose or his wife it’s so nebulous a drenching, but it is his wife and Gale’s tongue about tears itself out of his own mouth in his angst to catch it all. What it doesn’t catch tickles his cheeks and collects in his lashes and drips from his chin into the proper navy collar of a respectable man. She makes noises as she calms down, a few jerking cries as the last gushes squirt out.

Her leg falls from beside his head, her bare thighs shaking terribly and he can’t move a inch, her hand still so tight in his hair. Panting down at him, her face is almost as deep a red as her hair. She takes her foot and presses it to his crotch and he makes a sound that should belong strictly to dogs. “So good for me,” she pants, her voice wrecked and his heart hasn’t managed a beat in half a minute, he’ll be ok though, she’ll see to that, “I want you to come now. Now you’ve made me feel so good.”

It should probably take more but it never does. Gale’s hips jerk against her foot and she lets his head go and he sags forward, face buried into her belly where her silky mauve shirt bunches up and he moans for the long while it takes for all of it to ooze out unprovoked. His wife pets him all the while, one hand sweetly combing through his hair, the other firm on his neck, not letting him straighten up until he’s truly through. It’s just the right side of demanding and Gale typically clenches and jerks through it for an insufferable amount of time and comes to while slumped against her hip utterly satisfied.

“There really is meatloaf this time.” Maureen tells him after what could be two minutes or an hour, and she sounds herself again if a little hoarse. “And I’m getting worried for your knees.”

He pulls away and sniffs, face tacky from tears and- female ejaculate, he supposes, stunned and yet accepting. They’ll need to talk. Not now though. Right now he thinks of standing up and he is supported in that mission only by the feel of Maureen’s hand carding through his hair at the nape of his neck.

“It’s Tilly’s recipe.” she informs him, very happy, very natural, very wifely.

Feeling comes back to Gale’s legs in painful pinpricks. He puts his hands on her hips and heaves himself up until he is his full height and she is staring up at him calm and deceptively careless. “I’m gonna shower.” he tells her, booping her nose as he cannot fathom kissing her with a face this sticky, and she nods in agreement, knowing he’s not fully back but will be, knowing he’s got her pinned somewhere between wife and- it doesn’t matter anymore.

“I’ll set the table.”

“Alright.”

She sets the table, he showers. He leaves the door open so she can come in if something bad happens to him in there. Nothing bad happens. The itch doesn’t come back at all that night. They get some ketchup on the crossword puzzle but it’s alright. It’s their home, they can do what they damn well please. Gale can’t recall why it is he ever wants to leave.

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[obrowne21]

ʙᴀʙʏ ɪᴍ ʏᴏᴜʀꜱ

“𝔽𝕝𝕚𝕣𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕘'𝕤 𝕟𝕠𝕥 𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕝𝕝𝕪 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕤𝕡𝕖𝕔𝕚𝕒𝕝𝕥𝕪, 𝕄𝕒𝕛𝕠𝕣 𝔹𝕦𝕔𝕜𝕪, 𝕞𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥 𝕨𝕒𝕟𝕥 𝕥𝕠 𝕤𝕥𝕚𝕔𝕜 𝕥𝕠 𝕤𝕚𝕟𝕘𝕚𝕟𝕘.”

“𝕆𝕙, 𝕚𝕤 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕣𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥?”

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

In which everyone knows that Delilah Cleven, also known as Baby or the best damn mechanic you’ve ever seen, is off limits. Ironically, she’s caught the eye of her brothers best friend and partner in crime. As the harshness of war continues to spread among the RAF Station in Norfolk, Baby and Bucky find love and light in each other. The only obstacle that separates them is the protectiveness of her older brother, Gale Cleven, who would never approve.

CHAPTER 1

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

[alienoresimagines-archive]

can you write [knuckles] for a kiss on the hand? thank you!!

I'm sorry this took so long, I hope you're still around 🥺❤️But here it is, 1.8k long despite my best efforts at keeping it under 1k 😅 I hope you'll like it 💕 Also on AO3 My other Clegan fics here

Never Coming Down (With Your Hand In Mine) | Buck x Bucky

The radio they managed to find doesn't tell them much of interest regarding the Allies’ troops and their progress, but writing any tidbits of information down gives John something to focus on that isn't this camp, this life that isn't really a life but that isn't death either, just some in-between that John is stuck in, unable to do anything or be useful. One foot in the grave and every day wishing a bit more it was both. In the darkest corner of his mind, he thinks that perhaps his death would save Gale from tiring himself to the bone trying to keep John tethered to Earth. Maybe, at least then, he could be useful to Buck. 

The thought is squashed away almost immediately, guilt crawling in his throat. Those few days after Gale had gone down over Bremen were the worst in John's life. The certainty that he was now a piece of something that would never be whole again, with no home to fight for anymore, had been the most excruciating pain John's ever known. Over the course of just a few months, he’s lost more friends than he can count, each loss cutting deeper. But losing Gale hadn’t just felt like losing a limb. From the moment Red’s distorted voice reached his ears through the phone - “He went down swinging, John” - he was an empty shell walking, his chest hollow with no heart, some vital part of him missing. No matter how miserable this camp makes him, wishing such agony on his best friend, his better half is unbearable. If only to spare Gale any additional pain, he’ll plant both feet in the mud until they stop trying to get him closer to that barbed-wire fence. 

Yet, despite desperately wishing Gale out of harm’s way, his being chained to the dirt with him is John’s saving grace. In the darkness of the Stalag, Gale shines brighter than the North Star, and John fights every day to keep himself from the fog in his head to grasp at this soft golden light. It's easier at night, the weight of Gale in his arms a grounding presence, the distinct smell of him feeling more and more like home, but John is starting to make it through some days always there too. Listening to the radio also helps, especially when most days, it's just him and Gale at the table, the others keeping watch on the guards from outside. Soon it'll be too cold for them to do so without it being suspicious or dangerous for their own health, but for now, John is glad he gets to spend more time alone with Gale. His ma always said he fights tooth and nail for those he loves, and right now, he's desperately grasping at the fading rays of sunlight, selfishness be damned.

Today, the BBC doesn't have any interesting news to keep hold of his attention for long, so he mostly scribbles down what he hears without making sense of the words strung together, too focused on the solid presence of Buck on his right. With both of them being right-handed, it would have been too much of a hindrance to be pressed close enough for their shoulders to touch, but their knees knock together every so often, like silent banter. It sends sparks of warmth down John's spine, the focused tilt of Gale's mouth only amusing him in his boredom. In the past five minutes, he's sent his knee against Gale's in soft presses, alternating between lingering and fleeting touches until the word B-U-C-K is successfully floating in the air, though the man himself seems entirely unaware of it, tongue darting between his lips in concentration. Bucky's debating coding G-A-L-E, just to see if the rare occurrence of his given name will snap the other out of his focus when said man grunts softly as he scribbles, pencil scratching the paper as it nears the edge. John mindlessly hands him a blank piece of paper, more than attuned to all the different ways the other has to ask for something without voicing his desires, eyes trained on the stray blond curl falling on Buck’s forehead. Without lifting his eyes from his piece of paper, Gale extends a pale hand to take John's offering, the contact of their fingers sending a jolt through John's blood. He lets out a yelp, slightly jerking back before diving in to hold Gale's hands between his own, Buck's sound of confusion and protest as his pencil is thrown out of his hold swallowed by John's cursing.

"Jesus, Buck, your hands are fuckin' freezing." John doesn't feel particularly warm but the difference in temperature between both their hands is such that he half-expects the air to start hissing. How Gale can still move his fingers is a mystery to him, and his gut goes tight with worry. Trying to rub warmth back into those hands, John brings them to his face so that he can blow hot air on long fingers. He's deeply aware of how intimate the gesture is, especially in a place like this, and he can feel heat rising to his cheeks but he focuses stubbornly on his task. Keeping his eyes on those hands he’s never held so close to his face is a necessary precaution to ensure he doesn’t dismiss any inch of skin in his mission to warm them enough that he doesn’t have to worry about them falling off, and it has the additional effect of allowing John to study them without fearing being caught.

Gale's hands truly are beautiful. They've always been, and in the years he's known the other, John has spent more time than he probably should have admiring them. How they wrap in a strong grip around the yolk to wield a metal fortress effortlessly, how long, slender fingers bring a toothpick to the plump curve of his lips. Calluses on fingers and rough palms that were still so gentle and kind when they tended to John's wounds just a few months ago. Today, they look frail and dry, the knuckles angry red and cracked from the cold. It hurts to even look at them, those hands that were more suited for piano and gently guiding horses across fields now cracked by misery and cold. Acting on an urge, he presses a kiss to the knuckles of both, a silent promise to warm them and get them better, to get them far from weapons and barbed fences, and back to horses and piano and books.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he can see Gale blinking owlishly at him, perfectly still. Between them, the radio crackles, words floating in the air but never making it to any paper. After a few more seconds, Gale's voice rises too, soft despite his usual deep southern drawl.

"I need my hands back, Bucky." John frowns, still rubbing his palms over Gale's hands to warm them. Admittedly, he knows Gale can't write with his foot, even though imagining it almost makes him smile, but really, nothing the BBC is broadcasting right now is worth the risk of Gale losing his hands to the cold. Unconsciously, he brings Gale's hands closer to his face, just shy of nuzzling them with the tip of his nose, already thinking of all the ways he could get them warm. It would be, like many things, easier at night. With the cold, everybody has taken up to sharing a bunk and no one would notice if Gale's hands were pressed to his skin, under his shirt. Even though the thought of those icicles against more sensitive skin than his palms isn't exactly a pleasant one, he'd do it in a heartbeat. For the day, when it would be too risky for John to hold Gale's hands in his pockets, maybe he could find him some gloves, at least make mittens out of socks, to soften the blow of the cold and the sting of the wind. 

"Bucky ?" Eyes snapping to Gale's, he finds him with his head slightly tilted to the side, cheeks red from the cold. It's then he realizes he still has both of Gale's hands in his. The other looks at him and then back at his paper before raising his brows in a silent question, making John huff. Reluctantly, he lets go of Gale's right hand but immediately cradles his left hand on his lap. He hopes Gale will be satisfied with this, but the other keeps looking at him insistently, a fond glint in his eyes but brows slightly furrowed, as if his left hand being held in both of John's is a math problem he can’t solve.

At the silent question, he rolls his eyes and makes a show of putting his own left hand on the upper part of Gale's paper, making sure it doesn't move from its spot on the table. The paper is smooth against his fingertips, contrasting with the rough feel of the wooden table that has given them more than their fair share of splinters on his palm. He misses the feeling of Gale’s hands in his. For a moment, he had felt whole in a way he usually only feels at night. Gale's hand is starting to get warmer in his, the skin rough from the cold, but John has never held something as delicate and precious as it, save for Gale himself.

Resting their joined hands on his lap, he intertwines their fingers and fights down the blush he can feel creeping up his neck, eyes resolutely on the paper in front of the other. There’s no reason to feel nervous, they’ve slept in each other’s arms so often by now it really shouldn’t matter, but something about the fact that this isn’t about survival forces him to take a deep breath before moving. With one slide over the bench, his side is pressed to Gale’s, shoulders rising and falling in tandem. He’s glad to notice that Buck isn’t as cold as his hands, warmth seeping from his side to John’s as rapidly as the tension leaves the set of his shoulders until he’s pressing back into John.

They'll work slower like that but Gale doesn't protest nor take his hand away, only resettling slightly so his thigh also rests against John’s. Tentatively, he risks a glance at Gale and finds him looking down at the table, face still red but from something John has an inkling isn't the cold anymore, biting his bottom lip softly but mouth nonetheless quirked upwards. It takes every ounce of strength and self-restraint in him not to kiss him, to smother the affection blooming in his chest. Instead, after a bit of silence in which he feels he might suffocate on pent-up love, John squeezes Gale's hand in his and the other seems to focus back on his task, startled. Clearing his throat, Gale starts scribbling again, pointedly avoiding looking to his left, but John doesn't mind, a smile spreading his cracked lips, fondness written plain on his face as he doesn’t look away for a second.

On his lap, Gale squeezes his hand back.

[eternal-love]

A HOUSE IN NEBRASKA

Pairing: Major Gale Cleven x Reader

Summary: Before he left, he was yours. Yours only. Your Gale. Saying goodbye to him was so difficult, but never seeing him again was the last blow.

Warning: Mentions of war, slight love making.

Part of the Preacher’s Daughter series.

It was doomed from the beginning, you just didn’t know it yet. You met Gale in high school, and you thought he was beautiful. Blond hair and striking blue eyes, like a Hollywood star. You used to tell him he could dethrone Gary Cooper, he only laughed in return, his cheeks flushing as if he was wearing rouge.

You were both very alike, quiet, kind, from broken families and most importantly— lonely. You connected quickly. It was easy to do so, when the both of you needed someone.

You knew he was different, Gale, your Gale, didn’t like drinking, or sports, or smoking nor betting. Maybe that’s why you wanted him. He was everything your father wasn’t, everything his father wasn’t.

You two dated, since junior year, even after graduation. Everyone congratulated you, he had been valedictorian, he was the brightest boy around. You were already planning in your head your future with him. How many kids, two (boy and girl, of course). You imagined how your house would look, how he would get a good job and he’d come back every night to you.

You forced him to drive almost 10 hours to Nebraska. Under your spoiled little self, telling him your penpal cousin lived over there. That house in Nebraska, it was abandoned, but it had sometimes. Two stories, white, few windows. Your grandparents were your example of love, they had built their home from the ground, it was theirs, and love was inside that house, you could feel it in the air. That’s what you wanted to have with Gale.

You practically pulled him inside the house,he was scared, what if you two got in trouble?

“I don’t think this is a good idea, sweetheart.” Gale said, as you pulled his hand, he looked around, careful on what he stepped on.

“Come on! Nothing will happen. Alright?” You said confidently. Your T-strap pumps clicked on the old wooden floor.

“It reeks in here.” Gale scrunched his nose.

You looked around the house, a kitchen, a living room, a bathroom, a backyard.

“Let’s go upstairs.” You said, almost rushing towards the wooden stairs.

“What? Are you crazy? What if-what if the stairs break? You don’t know how old this damn house is!” Gale grabbed your hand, he didn’t want to get you hurt and deal with your father. And because he didn’t like seeing you sad.

“If I fall, you fall with me.” You said, getting closer to him. Pecking his cheek, trying to make him smile, to drop his serious. “No one gets beaten up by my daddy, alright?”

“Ya know I can never say no to you.” Gale smirked. Following you, the stairs creaked with every step. And upstairs it was the same as downstairs, but just filled with three rooms, two of the rooms were small. But the main one was big, some forgotten wooden furniture and a dirty mattress on the floor.

“This will be our room.” You said, already imagining it with the right care, with matching sheets and curtains. Wearing your rollers, your nightgown, waking up next to him. “You’ll make love to me here.” Gale almost choked on his own saliva.

Not because he didn’t want to make love to you. But because you said it straightforwardly.

You both ended up laying on the dirty mattress, he placed the jacket underneath your heads. It was silent, the only sound was the wind outside and your breaths.

“This is my favorite sound.” Gale whispered, finally just— silence. “I’m tired of my mama and father fighting all day long.” Gale groaned, his hand rubbing his face.

“That won’t happen between us.” You promised him. “Our children—“

He interrupted you, quickly “Our children?”

“Yes. Ours. I mean… we’ve been going steady. I’m not going to force you, Gale. I guess I thought—“

He kissed you, deeply, you’d kissed before, a thousand times. The fact that you were already planning a perfect domestic life in your head made him fall in love with you even more.

“You’re my girl.” He whispered in your lips. “And I’m your man.” He then leaned in and kissed you again, his hand cupping your jaw. He immediately got on top of you, his hips in between your legs.

Kissing had never gotten so heated before, well, you both had felt it, but never went past the line. You had promised yourself and God that you’d remain pure until you got married to Gale. But it was harder than expected.

You started to unbutton his plaid shirt, tossing it to the side, you took off his sleeveless undershirt. His hands went under your skirt, gathering it up in your waist.

“No stockings?” Gale whispered in your ear, pulling down your panties.

“I thought this could happen.” You whispered with a smile. Pulling him down and kissing him again, your hands messily trying to unbuckle his belt, he propped himself on an elbow, his other hand trying to help you. But it was very messy.

You started chuckling nervously. It was endearing. This was your first time. You took it slowly. You had heard stories that it hurt. And damn— it did hurt.

He stretched you out in ways you didn’t know you could. Your back arched once the pain started to fade, he held your waist, his thrusts very slow and gentle, you cupped his face with both hands, maintaining eye contact as he ruined you.

You were finding each other, in this fucked up place. Which was weird. The place that should be the most dangerous— felt like the safest place for the both of you.

He finished, fast, you couldn’t help but laugh. He collapsed on top of you. His labored breaths in your ear.

“If we die tonight, you’ll die as mine.” He whispered, softly, kissing his way up to your lips and then pecking your cheek.

“You’re my whole world.” You whispered back to him, not wanting this moment to end.

You really thought you would have your happy ending. That house in Nebraska became your safe place every second weekend of every month.

Before he graduated university, you were already expecting him to propose. But he gave you another announcement.

“I enlisted.” He said, as if he was telling you something vague. You turned around, flabbergasted.

“What?” You asked, as if you hadn’t heard the first time.

“I enlisted—“

“Yeah, I heard the first time.” You nodded, gulping. “I’m asking. Why?” You walked closer to him.

“I gotta serve the country, sweetheart. Aim that what a good American does?” He said, smile on his face.

“You ain’t gotta listen to the propaganda or your buddies, Gale. You a good American man. You don’t drink, smoke or gamble.” You shook your head, grabbing his hand tightly. “You don’t have to give into the pressure, Gale.”

Maybe, just maybe, he was doing this due to the peer pressure people placed upon young men nowadays during war time. But Gale worked, he had a girl back home, he paid taxes, he was a good American.

“Just, tell me you’ll wait for me.” Gale said, hopeful with his tone.

“Wait? Wait for you?” You shook your head. He had promised you’d be on a white dress by spring. Now— this? What else did this war want to take from you? “No. No. No. I won’t have you come home in a box. No.” You said firmly.

“I will come back to you. I will.” Gale cupped your face. But you were stubborn. Why were the young men having to do all this shit, while the ones who started this could sit in their high chairs, without getting hurt? “In one piece. With a ring.”

“No. No. I won’t lose the man I love.” You pushed him away softly. Trying not to cry as you paced around.

“I love you, sweetheart. But if I don’t do this— I won’t be able to look at myself in the mirror.” Gale said. The ever emphatic Gale. You hated how sweet he was.

“It’s because of men like you that us women here keep losing who we love the most.” You said. Without thinking. You were mad. Mad at everyone.

Gale gasped, in disbelief. “It’s my duty.”

“It’s not your duty. You didn’t start the goddamn war, Gale! You didn’t!” You yelled, not being able to hold back. “We were planning our wedding. We’re saving up to buy our home.” You pleaded with him. Trying to look at him in the eyes. “Gale?”

He avoided your gaze, looking down on the floor of your bedroom. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“Then don’t go!” You said, as if it wasn't obvious. “Stay here. With me. Let’s buy that house in Nebraska. Let’s build our own space. We’ll make our life.”

But you saw it in his eyes. He was already a foot outside. He just needed a little push. You thought that maybe if you scared him, he’d bail out. What a stupid girl you were.

“Then pick.” You said, he raised his eyebrow, biting the inside of his cheek. “America or me?”

One second. Two seconds. By the third second, your heart broke. Loudly. But you prayed to God, that this time, he would also listen to you.

“The country.” Gale said, his voice strained.

You should’ve known your Gale, the one that was led by duty and honor. Silly girl. Thinking this perfect man would be imperfect this one time

“Ugh, go on then. Leave! Go!” You said, shoving him. Not caring if it hurt him. “Go! I don’t want to see your damn face again. I don’t care if you come back in a box! I don’t care if you don’t even come back at all

Gale didn’t even defend himself. Maybe this was for the best. Maybe it was.

Now your world was empty. It wasn’t Gale and you against the world. It was Gale against his world. And you against your world. Because you were two lonely people. You were the only person you trusted enough to talk about being hurt. By 1942, you knew he was in England. Your heart in your throat everyday. As if he expected you to wait for him. As if you hadn’t thrown him out of your parents house.

You told him to go. You told him so. You lit the fucking match. You pushed him. You told him you didn’t care if he came back home dead. Or if he died on the air. You missed him, everyday. You visited the house you first made love in. Drank up in your fathers liquor like a fool. Like you could drown the guilt inside of you. The bottles made it worse. They just highlighted the pain inside of you, they made you cry harder than you already did.

You laid staring at the ceiling, for hours. Maybe he would never come back home, and you might never sleep at night again. And in those cold and cruel nights, you stared at the frame beside your bed. A sun bleached picture of you and Gale in high school. He was beautiful. The love was there, in your eyes.

His mama still called you sometimes, to check up on you, see if you were alright, well. And you lied to her, said: “I’m doing fine, peachy keen” when in reality, you’d kill your self to hold her son one more time.

And it hurt to miss him, but it was worse to know that you were the exact reason of why he was thinking of never coming back home.

The war ended, thousands were dead, but America celebrated. As if this had been the Olympics.Your Gale came back, he did, but he went straight to his mama. And then to that house in Nebraska. He drove hours just to get one last glance, the house was still falling down. If he had stayed— it would be the most beautiful house in the whole state.

But he chose the country over you. Even if it meant ripping his heart out with his bare hands.

He still remembered making love to you on the second floor, every weekend. He missed your warmth, you sweetness, your chuckles and you both learned together. The room was as you two had left it the last time you were here. He even found one of your hair pins. And a letter. A bit wet, ink runny, but readable.

“I hope God is listening to me tonight. I’m so sorry if I’ve asked more than I’ve thanked. I just hope you’re doing well out there. I just pray that you’re alright.

I am so alone. So alone. I feel so alone. Nothing can fill this whole you’ve left in me. I can’t forgive myself. I am so sorry, Gale. I know you probably won’t ever read this.

I hope you still think of me. Whether you hate me or miss me. If you don’t come home. It’s not America’s fault or Hitler’s. It’s mine. I told you to go. I pushed you. I won’t remember anything else but how I told you to go.

I’m still praying for this house in Nebraska. I still remember how you loved that it was by the highway. Out on the edge of town. How you loved humming while we looked around. I haven’t learned to let go when something’s broken, Gale.

It’s all I know and it’s all I want now, if it means you always being on my mind.

Love, y/n.”

He cried over the letter. Over and over again. Until tears ran out.

But you never saw him again. Because you were still the reason— he wouldn’t come back home.

[lostinwd]

Pls someone writes a fic where they have A MESSY break up in flight school but they still secretly love [hate] each other during mota 🧍🏻‍♂️🧍🏼‍♂️

[@ohboy609 on tik tok]

[pxnsneverland]

Something Immortal | Biker!Austin Butler x OC (part 1)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13

plot summary: In the gritty underbelly of a city ruled by werewolf biker gangs, Austin Butler reigned supreme as the ruthless leader of his pack. A man of unwavering ferocity, he lied, killed, and stole without remorse, living by a code of violence that defined his kind. Yet, even Austin harbored a secret weakness – his childhood friend Bonnie Barlow, the one woman he had loved in silence for years. Bonnie's father had once been part of Austin's gang, but after his death, she fled the treacherous world of the werewolves, unable to stomach the endless cycle of crime and brutality. For five years, she remained a fugitive from her own nature, until a fateful night when her life took an irreversible turn. Freshly released from a two-year prison stint, Austin returned to his pack, reveling in the debauchery of their den. But his revelry was cut short by a frantic call from Bonnie, pleading for his aid. Rushing to her side, he uncovered a grim truth – in a desperate act of self-defense against her abusive boyfriend, Bonnie had taken a life, awakening the dormant werewolf within her. As the next full moon loomed, she would undergo her first agonizing transformation, a fate she had always dreaded. Defying the pack's ruthless code, Austin sheltered Bonnie, guiding her through the excruciating metamorphosis that tore through her body each lunar cycle. In the depths of her torment, their bond rekindled, blossoming into a love they had long suppressed. Nights of shared laughter and reminiscence gave way to stolen moments of tenderness, their connection deepening with every passing moon. Yet, their newfound bliss was a fragile thing, forever threatened by the harsh realities that governed their world. For Bonnie was branded a deserter, her very existence a betrayal in the eyes of the pack. If Austin's treachery was uncovered, retribution would be swift and merciless.

pairings: biker!austin butler x oc

word count: 2746

warnings/notes: violence, mentions of murder, gang activity

Chapter 1: The Alpha's Return

As Austin pushed open the heavy oak door, the overwhelming cacophony of sound hit him like a physical force. The deep bass of the music thrummed through his chest and reverberated in his ears. The mixture of sweat, alcohol, and cigarette smoke assaulted his senses as he made his way into the dimly lit bar. Flickering lights hung haphazardly above the scattered tables and stools, casting shadows that seemed to dance with the rhythm of the music. In one corner of the bar, a group of men gathered around a pool table, their voices loud and boisterous as they cheered on their game. In another corner, a couple was engaged in a heated argument, their voices rising above the din of the bar.

Jerry Thompson, known as 'The Butcher' for his towering stature and imposing presence, immediately spotted Austin from his perch at the bar. Jerry's muscular arms were adorned with intricate tattoos that seemed to come alive with each movement as he stood up to greet Austin. His leather jacket emitted a low creaking sound as he moved, adding to his intimidating aura. With sharp eyes constantly scanning the room, he appeared to be assessing every person and potential threat.

"Austin!" Jerry bellowed with a wide grin, revealing his crooked teeth. Austin returned the gesture with equal enthusiasm and they met in a brief but firm hug, both happy to see each other after so long apart.

"Ace of Spades!" Jerry exclaimed, slapping Austin's back with a hearty laugh. The impact sent vibrations through Austin's body and he couldn't help but grin at his friend's exuberance. His booming voice echoed throughout the dimly-lit bar, drawing the attention of the other patrons. Heads turned, conversations paused, and eyes widened as they caught sight of the alpha in their midst.

"Still got your sense of humor, I see," Austin replied with a smirk. Despite the weariness in his voice, his piercing blue eyes sparkled with a fierce determination that radiated authority. He let his gaze wander around the room, taking in the familiar faces of his pack members and noting the new ones who had joined in his absence. The gang had clearly grown in numbers'.

"The pack's missed you," Jerry said, his deep voice barely audible over the pounding bass of the music. He motioned towards a back booth where a few burly men sat hunched over their drinks, their eyes gleaming under the dim lights. Jerry's eyes darted around the dimly lit room, his body tense with unease. He leaned in closer to Austin, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "Things haven't been easy since you've been gone; a few of the newer guys, they don't respect the code... or you."

Austin straightened up, his gaze sweeping over the assembled group. The tension in his posture was palpable as he issued a silent challenge. "Name them," he demanded, his voice laced with authority and steel.

Jerry seemed to hesitate for a moment, his gaze trailing away from Austin’s intense stare. He let out a deep sigh, the weight of the situation evident on his weathered face. Finally, with a heavy hand he pointed towards the corner of the bar where two young bikers were shooting pool. Their boisterous laughter filled the room, oblivious to the fact that they were being talked about.

“Those two. Dal and Jimmy.” Jerry’s voice was rough and gruff, barely audible above the rowdy crowd. “Think they can run things their way. They’ve been challenging your rules ever since you left.”

Austin’s piercing gaze followed Jerry’s finger and then slowly moved to focus on the two men in question. They seemed hardly more than boys really, their matching leather jackets and cocky attitudes giving off the impression of overgrown pups trying to mark their territory. The sight of them sparked something in his chest - a cold, calculated anger that had him clenching his fists at his sides. “I see.” His words were sharp and clipped, void of any emotion except for a simmering rage that only those who knew him well could detect. With a determined stride, he pushed past Jerry and made a beeline towards Dal and Jimmy who were still engrossed in their game of pool. The tension in the room felt palpable as all eyes turned to watch Austin approach the group of challengers. Austin's body visibly trembles with a mix of rage and anticipation as he approaches the oblivious duo. His broad shoulders square up, ready for a fight, while his icy gaze pierces through them like a sharp blade. The laughter dies down around them as they finally notice the Alpha's approach.

Dal, a lanky man with a scar running down the side of his face, meets Austin's stare with a smug smirk that exudes defiance. Jimmy, shorter and stockier with a wild mop of red hair, takes an instinctive step back in fear and quickly averts his gaze under Austin's intense stare.

With a voice full of authority and malice, Austin addresses them. "You got a problem with my rules?”

Dal's smirk twists into a snarl as he leans back against the pool table, crossing his arms over his chest in challenge. "Our problem ain't with your damn rules, Butler," he spits out Austin's title with contempt. "Our problem is with you.”

The pool stick falls from Dal's grip with a loud clatter as he stands, his eyes blazing with anger. "You've been locked up for two years and now you think you can just waltz back in here and reclaim your throne as alpha?" He takes a threatening step forward, his voice dripping with disdain. "We've managed just fine without you, Butler. Who's to say you're still the strongest?"

"Is that a challenge, Dal?" Austin's voice pierced through the dim bar like a shard of ice, freezing the air around them. His crystal blue eyes glinted with a dangerous intensity as they locked onto Dal, who could feel his heart rate quicken under the alpha’s unwavering stare. The muscles in Austin's arms bulged as he stood tall, crossing them over his broad chest in a show of dominance

Dal shifted uneasily, almost feeling physically pinned under the weight of Austin's intense glare. The smirk on his face vanished, replaced by a fierce determination that hardened his features. Meeting Austin's gaze head-on, he squared his shoulders and spoke with a steely resolve, “Yeah, Butler. It is."

Without warning, Austin lunged at Dal with such ferocious speed that he was nothing but a blur. The crowd's hushed gasps were drowned out by the sickening thud of Austin's fist connecting with Dal's face. A fresh cut on his lip oozed blood as he lay sprawled on the ground, his body trembling with pain and shock.The air in the room seemed to thicken with tension as Dal slowly rose to his feet, wiping the blood away with a shaking hand. His gaze locked onto Austin's, filled with a fiery defiance. Without hesitation, he launched himself at Austin, their bodies colliding in a flurry of fists and grunts. But Austin was a force to be reckoned with, easily overpowering Dal with his brute strength and merciless blows. Each punch landed like a sledgehammer, causing bones to crack and skin to split. The smell of iron permeated the air as blood spilled, staining the floor beneath them. Dal was no match for Austin's relentless assault. A thunderous left hook knocked him off balance, leaving him dazed and stumbling. Before he could regain his bearings, Austin charged at him like a raging animal, slamming him back against the pool table.

Pain exploded through Dal's body as he hit the hard surface, gasping for air as if his lungs had been crushed. He struggled to focus through blurred vision, gazing up at Austin who loomed over him like a giant. With one final burst of strength, Dal tried to push himself up off the table, only to receive a brutal kick to the gut that sent him crashing back down. As he lay there, helpless and defeated, all he could taste was blood and defeat in his mouth.

Austin stood over him, chest heaving and fists clenched. His ice-blue eyes were alight with a victorious glint as he looked down at his conquest. The crowd parted in silence, every pair of eyes glued to the spectacle. Austin’s gaze shifted from Dal to the onlookers, his expression stern and unwavering. His voice rang out clear and commanding through the silence, “Let this be a lesson to all of you - I am your alpha, your leader...and I will not tolerate disloyalty or disrespect in my pack.”

He cast a final glance at Dal, then turned towards Jerry who had been watching the scene unfold from the sidelines. The Butcher's face bore a grimace of satisfaction; he approved of what Austin had done. Austin slowly walked back to him, the crowd parting to make way for their leader.

"Painful but necessary," Jerry muttered as he draped an arm around Austin's shoulder, "hopefully this little display of power will keep them in line."

Austin simply nodded his agreement, keeping his gaze fixed ahead. However, his mind was a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. He knew that he had needed to assert his authority but the violent encounter left a bitter taste in his mouth. He hoped that no other member would dare to challenge him; he didn't want to shed any more blood of his own pack. But he would stand his ground and uphold order, no matter the cost.

"Well, that was a helluva welcome back party," Jerry chuckled and slapped Austin on the back. The two walked to the exit, their imposing figures outlined by the dimly lit bar behind them. Austin didn’t respond; his thoughts were elsewhere – on Bonnie Barlow. How would she react to tonight's events? Would she be afraid of him...or for him? As Austin sat in his cell, thoughts of Bonnie consumed his mind. She had been his only source of comfort during his time in jail, and now that he was out, she still lingered in his thoughts. It had been five long years since he last saw her, and he couldn't help but wonder how she had been and what she was up to now. Memories of her petite figure and expressive eyes flooded his mind, stirring a mix of emotions within him. Remorse for the mistakes he made and an intense yearning to see her again. His heart clenched at the reality of his situation. He wasn't just a man – he was an alpha, a werewolf. And Bonnie? She was the quiet beauty who had found her way into his heart, and then fled from the violent world he inhabited. Even as he craved to have her back in his life, Austin couldn’t help but acknowledge the bitter truth. The world he ruled with an iron fist was no place for someone as delicate and empathetic as Bonnie.

With a troubling thought gnawing at his mind, Austin abruptly shrugged off Jerry's arm and strode out into the cool, crisp night air. His heavy boots crunched with each step on the gravel path as he made his way to his motorcycle. The machine stood there like a ferocious animal lying in wait, its metallic body glinting in the moonlight.

"Hey, where you off to?" Jerry called after him, but Austin did not even spare a glance as he pulled on his leather gloves and climbed onto his ride. His mind was too cluttered with thoughts of Bonnie, bittersweet memories that brought both solace and a haunting pain.

The engine roared to life beneath him, a low growl that reverberated through the peaceful night. With one last look at the bar where his pack was still celebrating their leader's victorious return, he revved the engine and tore off into the darkness. The wind whipped against his face as he raced down the deserted roads, slicing through the quiet stillness of the night. He welcomed the chilling gusts, hoping they would blow away the weight of remorse weighing on him. But no amount of speed or distance could erase Bonnie's image from his mind or ease the ache in his heart. His thoughts kept returning to that fateful day five years ago when Bonnie had left.

She had vanished into the ether, leaving behind a void in Austin's life that he couldn't fill. No call, no text, no warning. One day, they were holding each other at her father's funeral - her tears staining his shoulder and his arms wrapped tightly around her. The next day, she was gone, taking all traces of herself with her. Austin searched high and low, calling every number he had for her and knocking on every door he could think of. But she had disappeared without a trace, leaving him feeling lost and alone. Weeks turned into months, which turned into years. The uncertainty of not knowing where Bonnie had gone or even if she was still alive weighed heavily on Austin's mind and heart. He would wake up from nightmares, drenched in sweat and trembling, his thoughts consumed by visions of Bonnie being hurt or in danger. As much as he wanted to protect her like he did when they were younger, he couldn't do anything if he didn't even know where she was.

The soft purr of his motorbike echoed through the stillness, offering him a strange sense of tranquility as he veered down onto the dirt path that led home. Austin’s cabin, nestled in the secluded wilderness away from town, was as rugged and unyielding as he was. A shabby structure with weathered timber walls and a roof so worn it seemed to blend into the overcast night sky. Sliding off his bike, Austin crossed the threshold, stepping into the austere living space. Minimalistic and practical just like him. A stone fireplace dominated one wall, its hearth filled with charred logs from a fire long gone. The rest of the furniture was plain and functional - a worn-out couch, a small dining table, and his bed tucked into an alcove.

He shrugged off his leather jacket and made his way to the worn-out armchair by the fireplace, sinking into its familiar comfort. Pouring himself a glass of whiskey from a dusty bottle, he stared at the golden liquid swirling within. Each drop mirrored years of torment and solitude that had gradually gnawed away at his soul. Drinking was not his means to drown the pain; instead, it was more of a ritual – an acknowledgement of his broken spirit and an attempt to numb the hurt festering within. The air around him crackled as he struck a match and brought it close to the dry logs in the hearth. The fire leaped up instantly, hungry flames lapping at the wood while releasing whispers of smoke into the air. Austin watched the dance of the fire, his mind lost in the glowing depths as he sipped from his glass. The warmth of the Scotch spread through him, a perfect foil to the cold emptiness he had grown accustomed to. The silence of his cabin was only broken by the sporadic crackle of the flames and the quiet hum of woodland creatures outside. This solitude was his sanctuary and yet it was also his prison cell.

The tranquil silence was broken in an instant by a shrill ring that made Austin jump. He quickly realized it was his cell phone, a device he hadn't heard from in what seemed like ages. His fingers fumbled for the familiar weight in his pocket, almost forgetting it had been there this whole time. The screen displayed ‘Unknown’ as the call persisted, daring him to answer and reveal the identity of the caller. Who could be reaching out to him, someone he had not seen at the bar? With a deep breath, Austin pressed accept and brought the phone up to his ear.

"Hello?" His voice came out rough and hesitant.

"Austin," said a soft voice on the other end.

Instantly recognizing the voice that had haunted his thoughts for years, Austin's heart began to race in his chest. The drink in his hand suddenly felt like a lead weight, and he carefully set it down on the small wooden table beside him. His fingers trembled slightly as he tightened his grip on the phone, as if it were the only thing anchoring him to reality.

"Bonnie..."

Stay tuned for part 2!! Click HERE to view!

[recmeidareya]

Packages and Pet Names Moodboard

John is the new UPS driver in the neighborhood and he seems to have a never-ending supply of nicknames for Gale.

A modern AU featuring veteran Gale, UPS driver John, and Dodo the cat. Fluff, smut, dancing under the stars, and falling in love.

[pxnsneverland]

Ruthless Grace | Austin Butler x OC (part 1)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14

plot summary: Amidst the grime and squalor of Victorian England's winding cobblestone alleys, a young woman's life hangs precariously in the balance. Violet, a poor peasant girl with long raven locks and piercing gray eyes, possesses a haunting beauty that belies the harsh realities of her existence. Tragedy struck two years prior when Violet's mother succumbed to illness, leaving her to fend for herself and her father – a cruel, selfish man consumed by vices of alcohol and gambling. On one fateful night, Violet's father drags her unwillingly to that very den of iniquity, and there she learns a horrifying truth from the club's greedy, perverted owner: to repay his mounting gambling debts, her father has sold her into sexual servitude. Violet's vehement protests fall on deaf ears, until an unlikely savior emerges from the shadows. Lord Austin Butler intervenes with a bargain of his own. This dangerous man offers to pay off Violet's father's debts in exchange for her accompaniment, and Violet is torn from the only life she has known. While Austin's demeanor remains shrouded in mystery and detachment at first, Violet gradually glimpses his softer, even playful side as time passes within the manor's walls and an unexpected connection blossoms between the unlikely pair.

pairings: austin butler x oc

word count: 3,025

warnings/notes: I decided to post another Austin fic I've been playing with for a little while. This is a set up chapter for the story and hopefully you guys enjoy it. The romance will begin soon :)

Chapter 1: Anchors and Aspirations

The icy wind bit through Violet's thin shawl as she maneuvered through the bustling market square, her gray eyes flitting from stall to stall. With the stealth of a seasoned thief, she slipped a hand into a basket, withdrawing a bruised apple before anyone noticed. At her heart, there was no love for thievery, but survival in the grim alleys of Victorian England left little room for scruples. As she tucked the stolen fruit into the folds of her dress, a shadow loomed over her. Her heart caught in her throat. She turned slowly, only to see Mr. Clarence Johnson, a local shopkeeper known for his scrupulous eye and unforgiving nature.

“Miss Everly,” he said, his tone surprisingly soft, his gaze not on the stolen apple but on her face. “You look more worn than usual. Are you unwell?”

Violet tensed. Clarence Johnson was an uncommon figure in their decrepit part of town; his presence alone suggested he was either lost or up to something far beyond her understanding.

“I am just fine, sir,” Violet replied, her voice steady despite the fluttering of her heart. “Just tending to some errands for my father.”

“Aye,” he nodded slowly, his bushy eyebrows knitting together in concern.

“But you needn’t resort to pilfering for your sustenance,” he continued, glancing at where the apple had disappeared into her dress. “There are other ways, Miss Everly, ways that do not risk your slender neck at the gallows.”

Violet stiffened, her hand instinctively clutching the fabric over the apple. The threat of the law was always a ghost that haunted her every step in these streets. “Thank you for your concern, Mr. Johnson, but I assure you, I manage as best I can.”

Clarence surveyed her with those discerning eyes that missed little. “Your father,” he began, his voice dropping to a softer timbre, “he does little to provide, am I right?”

The accusation stung because it was true, yet Violet felt a surge of defiance. “He is my father still,” she said coldly, daring him with her gaze to speak ill of the man despite his failures.

Clarence sighed digging into one of his pockets and pulling out a few coins. He handed it to Violet. “Go buy the apple, girl. It would be a shame to see you hang for a fruit.” A trace of regret flitted across his features. “Miss Everly, I—” He paused, seeming to choose his next words with care. “I find myself in need of a reliable assistant at my shop. Someone keen and observant. Your... talents could be put to better use than thievery.”

Violet's heart pounded fiercely against her ribcage at the offer. Employment from Mr. Clarence Johnson was an unexpected lifeline, a beacon in her relentless sea of struggles. Yet, mistrust curled inside her like a dormant snake. Why would a man of his standing offer her, a known petty thief, an opportunity?

"I appreciate your offer, Mr. Johnson," Violet started cautiously, her voice a low murmur as she glanced around the bustling market to ensure no eavesdroppers lurked nearby. "But why would you trust someone like me in your establishment? You know very well my... activities."

Clarence's eyes softened, hinting at a depth that Violet hadn't noticed before. “Everyone deserves a chance at redemption, Miss Everly. I’ve watched you, not just today but many times. You’re quick, smart, and despite your current... enterprise,” he said, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly, “you have morals. You steal only what you need and no more.”

He was right—Violet never took more than necessary to survive. Her actions were driven by desperation, not greed. The acknowledgment of that fact from Clarence Johnson stirred something akin to hope within her chest.

"Consider it," he urged gently as he started to turn away, leaving the coins in her palm.

Violet watched Clarence's retreating figure, the coins heavy in her hand like the sudden possibility they represented. In a world that had offered little but hard edges and cold shoulders, the warmth of an unexpected offer ignited a flicker of daring in her spirit. She could almost taste the promise of stability, a stark contrast to the bitter tang of pilfered fruit and the relentless ache of uncertainty. Still, Violet knew better than to leap without looking. Her life had taught her the sharp lessons of betrayal and disappointment too well. As she moved away from the market square, her mind raced with both the perils and prospects of Clarence Johnson's proposal. Could she truly step into the light of legitimate work without the shadows of her past pulling her back? And more pressingly, what did Clarence see in her that others didn't? Was it pity, a calculated gamble, or perhaps something more personal?

As she wandered through the alleys, her route took her instinctively towards home—a term used loosely for the cramped, dingy room she shared with her father. The door creaked ominously as she pushed it open, revealing Edward Everly slumped over a table littered with empty bottles. The stench of stale liquor and despair hung thick in the air. Violet's entrance went unnoticed by her father, his consciousness lost to the depths of another drunken stupor. She stood there a moment, her gaze hardening as she took in the sight of his decrepit form. This was the life she was born into, one suffocated by poverty and neglect, a stark reminder of what awaited her if nothing changed.

With a soft sigh, she stepped over the threshold, her boots echoing softly on the bare wooden floor. The coins still clenched in her hand felt like both a promise and a burden. She walked past her father, careful not to disturb his fitful slumber, and seated herself on the small, worn-out chair near the cold fireplace. Here in the dim light of their one-room abode, Violet allowed herself a moment to think. Mr. Clarence Johnson’s offer was tempting—an escape from this life of constant desperation. Yet doubt gnawed at her; trust was a luxury she could scarcely afford. Her thoughts were interrupted by a sudden groan from across the room. Edward Everly stirred, his eyelids fluttering open only to squint at his surroundings in befuddled drunkenness.

"Violet?" he slurred, his voice soaked with alcohol and confusion.

"Yes, Father," she replied quietly, steadying her voice to hide the tumult inside.

"What are you doing, sitting there like a lost soul? No food again?" His voice was rough, accusatory, as he tried to focus his bleary eyes on her.

Violet's hand tightened around the coins, the metal biting into her palm. She considered telling him about the job offer, about the possibility of change, but the words died on her lips. Her father's unpredictable temper and his disdain for any sign of ambition or hope outside his own distorted view discouraged any such revelations. Instead, she rose to her feet, smoothing the front of her dress with a practiced motion. "I'll get us something to eat," she said, her tone neutral. "Rest now. You need it."

Edward grunted in response, collapsing back onto the table with a weary thud. Violet turned away, feeling the weight of responsibility press down on her once more. As she stepped out into the waning light of day, the coins still in her grasp represented more than mere currency; they were a test of her courage and resolve.

The streets outside whispered with the voices of dusk—traders packing up their stalls, children playing before they were called in for supper, men heading towards the pubs for their evening respite. Violet moved through them like a shadow, unnoticed yet sharply attentive. She made her way to the tiny store at the corner of the street, its windows dimly lit and shelves sparsely stocked. Mrs. Bauble, the elderly proprietor, looked up from her knitting as Violet entered, her eyes narrowing slightly with suspicion and then softening as she recognized the young woman.

"Back again, Violet?" Mrs. Bauble asked, setting aside her knitting. Her voice was raspy yet carried a warmth that was often absent in their bleak surroundings.

"Yes, Mrs. Bauble," Violet replied, approaching the counter with the coins still tight in her grip. "A loaf of bread and whatever meat you can spare for this."

Mrs. Bauble eyed the coins and then Violet, a knowing look crossing her features. "Trouble or fortune, my dear? Those coins look heavy with one or the other."

Violet offered a small, weary smile. "Perhaps a bit of both," she confessed softly.

The old woman nodded as if she understood all too well the dual nature of sudden opportunities. She turned to gather the requested items, wrapping them carefully before handing them over to Violet. "Be cautious, child. Fortune's favor is a fickle friend," she advised, her wrinkled hand briefly squeezing Violet's.

Violet nodded, feeling the weight of the old woman's words sink into her heart. "I will, thank you, Mrs. Bauble," she murmured, taking the small parcel with a sense of gratitude mixed with trepidation. As she left the store, the cool evening air brushed against her face, whispering possibilities that both exhilarated and terrified her. The walk back home was a quiet one, filled with the sounds of her own footsteps echoing off the cobblestones and the distant laughter of children not yet called to their suppers. Violet's mind spun with thoughts of Mr. Clarence Johnson’s proposal. It was a chance to step away from the shadowy margins of survival into something resembling a normal life. But at what cost? Could she really leave behind the streets that had taught her everything about resilience and distrust just as easily?

The uncertainty churned inside her as she approached the door of her humble abode once more. Violet paused, hand on the latch, feeling the divide between her current life and the one that might await her with Clarence Johnson. She could almost hear her mother’s voice, soft and encouraging, urging her to take a chance for a better future. Yet, the haunting memories of past betrayals loomed large, making her hesitate. Resolutely, Violet pushed open the door, stepping back into the shadowed confines of the room she shared with her father. Edward Everly was now snoring loudly, lost in an alcoholic haze that seemed to provide him the only peace he knew. Violet set down the small parcel of food on the shaky table and took a moment to look at him. Despite everything, he was still her father, and a pang of compassion tempered her longstanding resentment.

Quietly she unpacked the bread and meat, setting aside a portion for herself before preparing a smaller plate for Edward when he would inevitably awaken. Her actions were mechanical, performed with little thought as her mind wrestled with larger concerns. She knew that accepting Clarence’s offer would mean more than just changing jobs; it would mean stepping into an unknown world, risking exposure and vulnerability in ways she hadn't before.

Later, as darkness enveloped the room and the flickering candle cast long shadows across the peeling walls, Violet sat with her thoughts, tracing the outline of the bread with her fingers. The sense of impending change weighed heavily on her. It wasn't just the prospect of leaving behind the familiar, suffocating squalor that gnawed at her; it was also stepping into a realm so vastly different from anything she had known. What if she was unprepared for the challenges? What if she failed?

As these doubts swirled in her mind, Edward stirred from his stupor, his movements sluggish as he adjusted to the dim light. He squinted at the plate set before him and then up at Violet, a rare flicker of confusion crossing his usually indifferent gaze.

"Did you fetch this, Violet?" he mumbled, his voice hoarse.

"Yes," she replied quietly, watching him closely.

He took a piece of meat and chewed slowly. For a moment, there was silence between them—a silence filled with unspoken words and stifled dreams.

"Why do you stay?" Edward's question came unexpectedly. His eyes, clearer now, fixed on her with an intensity that made her flinch slightly.

Violet paused, her breath catching in her throat. It was not like Edward to show interest in her choices or her life. The question hung in the air, heavy and laden with implications that Violet had long avoided. She searched for an answer that could appease both her father and her own restless heart. "I stay because this is my home," she replied quietly, her eyes not meeting his. "And because you are here."

Edward snorted, a bitter laugh escaping him as he looked around the decrepit room that barely served as a shelter. "This? This is no home, Violet. It's a prison. You're young still. You shouldn't be shackled by my failures."

His words, so starkly honest, struck Violet with unexpected force. It was rare for Edward to acknowledge his own shortcomings so openly or to express concern for her well-being. This glimpse of the man he might once have been—before grief and vice had reshaped him into the figure he now presented—left her momentarily speechless.

"You could leave, find a better life. Isn't there anyone...?" His voice trailed off, his question unfinished but clear.

Violet’s heart pounded in her chest as she considered her father's words. They echoed the very thoughts that haunted her nightly dreams—the possibility of a life beyond these walls, a chance at happiness that seemed so tantalizing yet so remote. But the thought of leaving her father in this state, as wretched as it was, tugged at her conscience. "There might be," she admitted softly, allowing herself to think of Clarence Johnson once more. His offer had been genuine, filled with promises of respect and a new beginning. Yet, the weight of her current reality shackled her ambitions.

"But I fear what leaving would mean for you," she continued, her voice barely above a whisper.

Edward scoffed, looking away from her piercing gaze. "Don't make an anchor out of me, Violet. I'm already drowning." His voice was gruff, edged with the harsh self-awareness that alcohol sometimes brought to his lips.

Violet swallowed hard, feeling the sting of tears she refused to shed. Her father’s usual indifference made his moments of clarity all the more painful for their rarity and raw honesty.

"I need to think on it," she finally said, standing up and moving towards the small window that overlooked the dim alleyway below. There, she pressed her forehead against the cool glass, trying to draw strength from the night itself. The tangled streets of London sprawled out before her—so familiar and yet suddenly brimming with the promise of escape. Her heart fluttered at the thought, a wild bird caged by years of oppression and fear.

Inside, Edward shifted uneasily in his chair, watching her silhouette framed against the weak moonlight that dribbled through the grimy window. For a moment, he seemed about to speak again, perhaps to retract his harsh truths or to further encourage her departure. But no words came; instead, he sank back into his chair with a heavy sigh that spoke volumes of his resignation to life's cruel turns.

Violet remained at the window long after her father's breathing evened out into the rhythm of sleep. Her thoughts were tumultuous waves crashing against the shore of her resolve. Clarence’s proposal was not merely an employment offer; it was an invitation to step into a world where she could perhaps wash away the stains of her past and emerge reborn. It promised safety, respectability, and above all, an identity unchained from the degradation that had colored her life. Yet, her father’s words haunted her: "Don’t make an anchor out of me." Could she really leave him here, adrift in the haze of his vices, or was it her duty to stay and prevent him from sinking deeper into despair? The weight of decision seemed insurmountable, anchoring her to this moment of indecision.

Violet pressed her cheek against the cool pane, the glass fogging slightly with each exhaled breath. Outside, the labyrinthine alleys of London whispered secrets of escape and adventure, but also murmured warnings of betrayal and hardship. Each whisper tugged at her soul, a symphony of opportunity and fear mingling in the night air. Her thoughts were interrupted by a soft noise behind her. Turning slightly, she saw Edward shifting again in his chair, his face etched with lines of discomfort and regret. For a fleeting second, she saw not the man who had failed her but rather the father who had once held dreams and aspirations beyond the confines of their dreary existence. The weight of his words echoed in her mind, a haunting reminder of their shared struggles and the unspoken bond that tied them together.

Drawing in a deep breath, Violet stepped away from the window. The cool air had not offered solace nor had it stiffened her resolve. If anything, it had only deepened her turmoil. Walking over to the flickering candle, she snuffed it out with a quick pinch, plunging the room into darkness. She navigated through the black with practiced ease, her every step whispering against the wooden floor. Reaching her modest bedding in the corner, she lay down without changing, drawing the thin blanket up to her chin. The darkness was not just a physical veil but also a metaphor for the uncertainty that clouded her future. As she lay there, her mind continued to race, replaying her earlier conversation with her father, weighing each word, each pause.

As sleep eventually claimed her in its restless embrace, Violet dreamt of vast oceans and endless horizons—a world away from the cramped confines of their decrepit home. In her dreams, the ocean was a deep blue, not the murky grey of London's foggy mornings. She stood on the deck of a ship, the wind tugging at her hair and billowing her threadbare dress like a sail. This was a freedom she had never known, unshackled from the burdens of her father's failures and the oppressive weight of their squalid existence.

Stay tuned for part 2!! Click HERE to view!

[feyd-meowtha]

“So you’re a… baseball card salesman?” He asked, peering at the card in his hand.  “John Egan, purveyor of rare baseball merchandise, at your service,” John said, holding his hand out for Gale to shake. Gale swallowed  a sudden glut of saliva when he saw how small his own hand looked in the other man’s grip. “Most of my friends just call me Bucky, so you can go right ahead and do that too cus I can tell we're gonna get on like a house on fire. What is it that you do, pal?”  “I work in engineering,” he said. John raised his eyebrows, letting out a low whistle and shaking his hand with gusto.  “We I’ll be, didn’t realise I was talking to a bon-a-fide egghead over here. Engineering, isn’t that something. You must be real smart, huh?" Gale didn’t have a chance to reply before the tannoy sounded. “We are sorry to announce that the 7pm flight to Chicago is delayed indefinitely, we will make another announcement when more information is available.” It was all Gale could do to stop himself from groaning in time with everyone else in the room. John, on the other hand, seemed unperturbed.  “Well, isn’t that just a classic?” He asked, shaking his hand and rolling his eyes, tapping a Lucky out of the box and into his hand, “but I guess there’s nothing for it, it’s always a risk flying this time of year and this way we got plenty of time to get to know each other. What was your name again?”  “I didn’t give it to you,” Gale replied, raking his hair back off his hair where the pomade was failing to hold it in place. 

Ch1/4, 7,005 words, 80s christmas AU

[jortpendle]

Title: Oranges Are Not The Only Fruit Rating: Explicit Tags: Fluff and Smut, Blowjobs, John Egan suggestively eating an Orange Summary: The morning after Gale arrives back at Thorpe Abbotts, he encounters John in the showers.

⋆｡°✩₊☾₊✩°｡⋆ ⋆｡°✩₊☾₊✩°｡⋆

Saw an Instagram post about eating an orange in the shower and immediately decided that's something Bucky would do