#Burning with Passion ; Vincent

[natalievoncatte]

Lena didn’t have time for traffic. She looked up from her phone and glared at the back of her driver’s head.

“Frank, why is it taking so long?”

“I’m not Frank, Ma’am. He called out this morning.”

Lena sighed. “And your name?”

“Vincent, ma’am.”

“Vincent, why is this taking so long?”

He signed. “Traffic, ma’am. Sounds like there’s a few blocks downtown closed. Supergirl is fighting some monster or alien or something.”

Lena stopped herself from smiling softly. “Ah, well then. Anyway, might as well see if you can find us a way around. I just don’t like to stand still.”

The driver nodded.

“What do you think about Supergirl, ma’am?”

Lena sighed. “Forgive me, Vincent, but I do have some work to concentrate on, here. I’m not usually one for chitchat. I hope you don’t mind.”

She sank back into her seat and flicked to the next email. There were a lot of fires to put out. Upcoming product launches, grant applications, university partnerships, charity events, plus her own work. She was becoming so strained lately that she was seriously considering stepping down from the direct CEO role so she could spend more time in the lab, where her real passion was.

Sometimes she almost sympathized with Lex; the life of a CEO could easily drive someone insane. Lena would rather spend her days in a labcoat or doing charity work than listening to another entitled silver spoon-

“You’re going the wrong way,” Lena said, sharply.

“I’m finding a way around,” said the driver. “You know, you never answered my question, before. What do you think of Supergirl?”

Lena stuffed her phone in her pocket and thrust her hand in her jacket, freeing the concealed revolver she carried in a shoulder holster under her left arm. The partition was already going up, sealing her in.

“What are you doing?”

“Answer my question,” the driver said, through a speaker.

Lena swallowed hard. “I think she’s a hero but I don’t fully trust her. I work with her when I feel it will help people. That’s all.”

“That’s not what your mother thinks.”

“Isn’t it?” said Lena. “What does she think?”

“Are you fucking her?”

Lena barked out a laugh. “Are you serious? That’s her question?”

“Are you fucking her like you debased yourself with that little tart in boarding school?”

There was silent beat.

“She told me to say that. She made me practice saying ‘tart’.”

He sounded almost bored.

“Fuck you,” Lena snapped. “Whatever you’re going to do, do it.”

“Nothing personal,” said the driver.

Lena sighed, almost annoyed at the hiss as a thin, chemical smelling gas hissed into the car, rising around her. She forced herself to stay calm, stoic, even her pulse raced.

“I’m not afraid of you, or her,” said Lena.

She coughed twice as the world irises shut around her, dragging her down into a cold, dreamless sleep.

When she snapped awake, she was alone. The partition was open, but the gun was gone from her holster. She felt around for it, then decided to clamber into the front seat, rolling over the seats facing her. The driver was gone, of course. Heavy chains were padlocked around the car, pinning the front doors shut.

There was a tape recorder sitting on the front seat. Lena ignored it as she looked around. The car was surrounded by metal walls, and a creep sense of dread rose up Lena’s spine. She fought the panic down, dropping into the driver’s seat.

Placing the tape deck on the dash, she pushed the okay button.

“Hello, Lena,” Lilian said, in her smooth, posh tones. Lena could hear that smarmy smirk forming around her words.

“You’re probably expecting an ultimatum or an offer. There will be none. I’m through trying to bring my husband’s wayward bastard back into the fold. When you betrayed Lex again, you burned your last chance. It’s time to take out the trash, Lena. I wish I could have throttled you in the cradle, but I didn’t know about you and your mother until it was too late. It’s time to correct that. It’s too bad we won’t be there to watch.”

Watch what?

Lena sat and waited. Whoever was sent to murder her had no sense of dramatic timing. She began rifling through the car, trying to take stock of what she had, what she could use to effect an escape. Breaking the-

A sharp shriek of metal cut through her thoughts. The side walls inched forward with a screech of metal, and Lena froze, terror piercing through her like an icy spike.

Oh.

Oh God.

The walls moved slightly more, and the rear view mirrors on both sides of the car exploded. The mechanism pushing the walls strained and groaned, and that was the only mercy she had.

She was in a car crusher. In the car.

The armored structure of her town car was too heavy for the machine to simply crush, but she had minutes at most. Metal groaned in protest, shrieking around her, and the glass quivered in the doors.

Oh God. Oh God.

She wasn’t going to panic. She wasn’t going to panic. She ripped open every single compartment and cubby she could find, but found only monogrammed glassware and a bottle of champagne. There was nothing.

A random, forgotten Lexosuit would be really useful right about now.

With a sudden shriek, the car began to collapse. The bulletproof glass buckled and shattered, pelting the front seat as she rolled into the back, and the doors buckled in, tearing loose from their hinges as the floor and roof began to fold.

A sudden, ringing, frankly stupid thought came into her head, but it was her best play.

Lena Luthor filled her lungs. She took in the biggest, deepest breath of her life, a breath worthy of a championship deep diver, and screamed at the top of her lungs, until it hurt.

“SUPERGIRL!”

She had to scramble into the back seat as the engine began pushing through the dashboard, ripping apart plastic and leather, splintering buried wood. Lena ducked as the roof crumpled and dove in, like the roof of a dragon’s mouth crushing down to pulp her. She closed her eyes and curled in on herself, hoping it would at least be over fast.

A single ringing thought bit through the fear.

Oh God. Kara’s waiting for me at the restaurant.

Around her metal shrieked, and she heard the vast clang of rending machinery. The inexorable crushing stopped, the bucking limousine going still. Lena opened her eyes, peering through her fingers like a terrified child, and watched in awe as one of the crushed plates tore loose from its moorings and went flying off into the afternoon air.

Hands, strangely delicate, punched through armor plating as if it were cobwebs and ripped the broken shell of Lena’s limo apart, spreading it in every direction.

Lena had never seen Supergirl so panicked. Her eyes were too wide with abject terror, and she seized Lena in her arms, winding her cape around her, and rocketed loose from the car.

Lena’s words were lost to the wind. Supergirl was blasting into the air, flying incredibly fast- too fast. Helpless, she clung to the hero for dear life, feeling woozy as the blood drained from her skull.

She thought, oh, come on, as she passed out again.

When her eyes drifted open, Lena was lying on the ground. Groaning, she sat up slowly, feeling every movement, and realized she’d been lying on a spread red blanket with her suit jacket piled up under her head for a pillow, and she was in the woods. The sun had yielded to the sky, and someone had started a roaring fire a few feet away.

Grateful for the warmth, Lena edged closer. As she did, she realized that she was sitting not on a blanket but on Supergirl’s cape.

Blinking, she looked around.

Supergirl had her back to a tree, curled up on herself with her head hanging between her knees, arms wrapped around to cover her face, and she was sobbing quietly. Lena stared, open-mouthed.

“Supergirl?” she breathed.

Supergirl didn’t respond. Lena rose to her feet, wobbling, and discarded her heels before walking across a bed of soft leaves. She crouched in front of the weeping Kryptonian, stunned when the other woman flinched.

“Supergirl?”

“Lena?”

Her voice was small and soft, all the bravado and righteous authority gone. She sounded strangely human.

“Are you okay?” she whispered.

“I think I am,” said Lena. “What about you? Are you hurt?”

“No,” she sniffed. “A Tauraxian hit me in the head with a greyhound bus. Tuesday afternoon at the office.”

Lena laughed softly, and sat down. “I’m sure. What just happened?”

Supergirl swallowed hard as she looked up. “I panicked. I saw what was happening and I lost control. I’m lucky I didn’t hurt you.”

Lena put a tentative hand in on her shoulder. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“More than you realize,” Supergirl sighed.

“I’m here,” said Lena.

She sat down. Supergirl looked away from her, staring I to the fire a few feet away. In starlight, with the firelight caressing her delicate features and sparkling in her blue eyes, it was impossible to miss how hauntingly beautiful she was… and how haunted herself. Supergirl looked older than her years, a deep sorrow in her eyes that Lena had never seen before.

“I’m claustrophobic,” Supergirl explained. “Not the kind of thing that you advertise.”

“We all have our fears. I have some of my own.”

Lena pushed down thoughts of a pale hand sliding beneath churning black water and shuddered.

With teary eyes, Supergirl looked at her.

“I can’t. I can’t have fears. I’m Supergirl. I have to be perfect, set an example, all that crap. I’m the perfect woman who came from the sky to do only good.”

The perfect woman, Lena thought, consuming the firelit beauty before her. No one would debate that.

Well, Lena would, maybe. There was someone more perfect, someone soft and kind with a devastating smile and laughing eyes tinged with strange sorrow. She hoped Kara wasn’t worrying about her.

It was funny how Lena always thought of Kara when Supergirl was around. Guilt, maybe. Foolish guilt; Kara was a far shore that Lena would never reach, even if she’d gladly sink in the attempt.

“Before I came to Earth, I drifted in the phantom zone in my pod. There were things outside. The pod was the size of a coffin, a tiny space to spend all that time. The phantoms would claw and slash at the canopy and the walls. I was awake for days hearing them trying to get in. Sometimes there were bigger things out there, wrapping arms around it and trying to crush their way in.”

Lena nodded. “That sounds beyond terrible. It’s okay for you to be scared after that.”

Supergirl nodded. “I can barely handle elevators sometimes.”

A jolt went through Lena, something familiar, like a word on the tip of her brain.

“I get scared when other people are enclosed, too,” said Supergirl. “When I saw something trying to crush you, I just lost it. It’s different when it’s you.”

Lena swallowed hard, trying to suppress the shiver that coursed through her body and made the small hairs on her arms stand on end.

“Back in high school, the other girls used to bully me,” said Supergirl. Once, they locked me in a closet in the locker room. I screamed and screamed until until someone let me out. Alex was furious, she…”

Supergirl went quiet, trailing off. Her eyes went wide and she jolted back.

Lena sat there for a second, unsure why…

Wait.

Alex?

High school? Supergirl went to high school?

With Alex? Alex Danvers?

Lena choked down a gasp, the wheels whirling in her head. She looked over and met Supergirl’s eyes, studying them. Her. The way the light played across her soft features, her honey hair, the little scar above her eye.

“Hi, Lena.”

“Hi, Kara,” Lena whispered.

Neither of them moved. Lena wondered briefly if Kara had ever planned to tell her, how she might have planned it. Probably not like this. Her throat bobbed.

Lena shifted closer, until they were hip to hip in a seated hug, Kara crying softly on Lena’s shoulder, powerful arms wrapped around her.

“I was scared,” said Lena. “I was afraid I was going to die and you’d be sitting at the table at the restaurant waiting for me.”

“Never,” said Kara. “I’ll always protect you.”

“And I’ll always protect you. Nobody is ever going to shove my Kara in a closet ever again.”

Kara let out a little gasp.

“Can we stay here for a while? Talk? Just you and me?”

Kara nodded. She stood and gathered up her cape as Lena moved close to the fire, and sat down, wrapping it around them both. Lena let her head fall on Kara’s shoulder.

“This makes a nice blanket.”

“It is a blanket. My cousin was swaddled in it when he came to Earth. Don’t worry, I washed it.”

Lena laughed softly, awkwardly trying to decide where to put her hands. She settled on being bold, and put her arm around Kara’s waist. Kara slipped her arms around her shoulder and pulled her in, and Lena hugged her back, tucking herself into Kara’s shoulder.

They sat for a while as the fire burned down low. It was full dark and the fire was nothing but coals.

“I was going to tell you. I wanted to.”

“I’m not mad.”

“Okay,” Kara sighed.

Lena swallowed hard, trying not to feel her blood rushing in her ears.

“You know,” she said. “You could kiss me right now, if you wanted. That seems like the kind of thing the hero does after saving the girl.”

“I could?” said Kara.

“You could.”

“Like this?”

Kara was trying to be smooth, and it made it hard for Lena not to giggle. She tipped Lena’s chin up with soft fingers and guided herself in, bringing their lips together. Kara kissed her softly, tentatively. Lena kissed her back just as softly, afraid this moment would shatter if she pressed too hard.

It was easy to shift herself into Kara’s lap, even before Kara lifted her there. Lena knew she was strong but not Kryptonian strong, and it it sent a thrill through her. She liked it.

She liked touching Kara, too. Liked feeling the bunching muscles flex under under hands, the softness of her hair, the way she gasped when she felt Lena’s lips on her throat.

“Never have I wished so badly for a tent and sleeping bags,” said Lena.

“And marshmallows to toast!” said Kara.

“Do you ever stop thinking about food?” Lena giggled.

Kara looked at her intently, and Lena shivered, not from the cold. She’d longed for Kara to see her like that, look at her like that.

“Sometimes,” Kara whispered. “Sometimes I think about other things.”

“We should probably go back,” said Lena. “We have people who are probably looking for us.”

Kara nodded.

“Do you want this to be… do you want us to be?”

“Kara,” said Lena, “I would have asked you out a year ago if I thought I had a chance. I thought you just wanted to be friends.”

Kara swallowed. “Are you saying you want to be my girlfriend?”

Lena smiled softly. “Yes.”

Kara rose and clasped her cape to her shoulders, then gently brought Lena to her feet and lifted her from the ground, holding her close.

“Not so fast this time, okay?”

“Okay,” said Kara, lifting them back into the sky.

[loveandmurders]

love your writing! how do you think the menagerie of murderers would react if their current crush/victim/hostage refers to them exclusivelly as "Mister [lastname]" even after they know their first name? would some prefer it that way? get off to the power synamic implied? would some insist on being called by their first name? would they not gaf? asking for Tommy Vincent and Brahms specifically but if you can do more i'd love that~

Hello there! I don't take request anymore but my mind instantly knew how each character you mentionned would react, so here a quick answer for you! (I added Bo and Lester)

I hope you'll enjoy <3

Warning: absolutely no proof reading, mentions of murders and violence, mentions of sexual desire, nothing else I think

Thomas Hewitt

Tommy would be confused as hell at first. Why would you call him "Mister Hewitt"? The man has never been called that way in his entire existence.

Of course, he understands you're trying to be polite, and it's better than being insulted... But he has a secret little crush on you (he thinks it's a secret but the whole family can tell) so it hurts him quite a lot that you are not calling him by his name. For him, it is as if you were putting barriers between the two of you. He wants you to be more intimate with him. He needs it actually or he is going to lose his mind.

He definitively asks his Mama (he is too shy to ask you directly) to tell you to stop calling him that, and to start calling him "Thomas" (which makes him feel so hot when you do) or "Tommy" (which makes him melt with pure love for you).

Bo Sinclair

Bo has tied you up on his chair and he is ready to toy with you in the nastiest way possible.

But he stops dead in his track when he hears you call him "Mister Sinclair" as you plead with him to not hurt you. He can't recall the last time he has been called that way and for an instant he doesn't know what to think about it. He asks you to repeat your words, which you instantly do, hopeful you might have found a cheatcode.

As he repeats the words inside his head over and over again, he moves his tongue over his dry lips and starts to understand he actually likes it a lot. It sounds even hotter coming out from your pretty mouth. Ok, you win, he won't hurt you as long as you keep calling him that way. God forbid he is getting hard from such a simple way. Also, he is losing it if you start calling him "Sir" as well.

Vincent Sinclair

Vincent instantly liked you among your little tourist group and this is why you're still alive, currently wandering around in the house. In your point of view, you're some sort of hostage, without really knowing what the brothers want from you.

But Vinny doesn't see it that way. You're his muse.

At first you don't know you are alive thanks to him; you even feel like he seems to avoid you as much as possible. Actually he is just watching you from far away. When he finally gathers the courage to be around you, he is so surprised to hear you call him "Mister Sinclair". He definitively enjoys the politeness of it. It also reminds him that he isn't his "mama's boy" anymore. He is a man. It makes him want to take care of you like a "man" would take care of you. But after a little while, he really needs you to call him by his name or even better by a nickname to show him you like him (even just a little).

Lester Sinclair

Lester is very happy you aren't calling him a "freak" or insulting him, despite the current situation (all your friends are dead and you're alive because Lester pleaded with his big brothers).

He is even astonished you are still so polite to him, like the first time you met on the dusty road of Louisiana. He isn't used of people being polite to him, and he is a little bit worried you are actually just scared of him. He really doesn't want that.

In addition, he HATES with burning passion you calling him "Mister Sinclair". Mister Sinclair was his father and fuck he hated that man and all the awful things he did to him and his brothers. So no, please, call him Lester, call him Les, call him anything you want, but not Mister. Even "Freak" would hurt less in fact. He doesn't really like "Sir" either because he doesn't feel like that. He is just "Lester".

Brahms Heelshire

For Brahms, it is normal and even expected that you call him "Mister" and that you are all polite and nice around him.

Your are his new nanny, you are stuck with him now and you better respect the rules and respect him.

But he can't deny that the way you pronounce those words instantly does things to him. If you are gently greeting him in the morning, he is promising himself he's going to be a good boy to you today. If you are scolding him because there is mud eveywhere in the living room, he gets sad and helps you clean up instantly. If you say this in between kisses, he is absolutely going feral for you.

"Mister Heelshire" used to be a way to show him some respect, now it is some sort of spell that wraps him up all around your little finger.

[early20sfailingplenty]

Lowkey, I want to see Vincent go insane because his s/o got hurt by a tourist. It’s just something about scary men who get pissed that their partner gets hurt and stops at nothing but get revenge is so 🥰🥰

I love the thought of this!

TW; canon-typical violence, discussion of canon events, dehumanisation of Dalton and Wade (canon-compliant), Bo pukes (unrelated to canon events - I'm not that strong lmfao)

I've always thought that Dalton and Wade got especially brutal deaths because of one simple fact: they messed around in Vincent's House of Wax. It's his domain, it's clear as crystal; it's his hunting ground, it's where he prepares and then displays the best of his trophies.

The House of Wax is his; Wade feigning to burn one of the sculptures was a genuinely asshole move (seriously, who the fuck sees someone else's hard work and starts melting it? Fucking ass) and earned him a place in the House of Wax; he mocked Vincent's work, so Vincent turned him into the very thing as a petty revenge.

Dalton, for his part, destroyed Vincent's latest project, tore the face off of his still cooling artwork and I don't know about you, but if I spend hours making something and then someone deliberately started messing with it, I'd be more than slightly murderous too.

(Though, in Dalton's defence, if I looked up and saw Vincent looming over me like that, I'd lose my head and squirt all over the floor too - I get it, dude).

All this to say... Vincent went apeshit on these two kids because they messed around in his domain. He's possessive, obsessive, deeply passionate and always in control of what he's doing. When Vincent puts his mind to something, he is ruthless and there's absolutely no stopping him.

So now imagine what he'd do, the acts of sheer depravity he'd perform, if his beloved got harmed? He'd be so vicious, so genuinely unhinged, that when Bo later sees what happened to the people he sent Vincent's way, the remains of the bodies would have him stomping outside to throw up in Lester's rose bushes, and even Lester would have to literally scrape them up off the floor with whatever gardening implement he can find. A shovel, maybe. A bucket of water to sluice them away would also work.

There's roadkill, there's roadkill, and then there's... whatever the fuck Vincent did to these people.

There's blood dripping off his twin blades, his overalls are caked in it, he's squelching somewhat in his worn boots as he walks, there's viscera splattered across the wax floor, and somehow there's blood on the ceiling... you know not to ask. But Bo's an interesting shade of porcelain you've never seen before, and even Lester can hardly bear to look.

And you? You're off to the side nursing your injury; nothing life-threatening, and later on you'll be joking with Bo, "'tis but a scratch", but Vincent's reaction has you feeling more than a little loved. Safe, protected, cherished, by the most relentless and brutal of the three Sinclair brothers.

[small-sinclair]

Kinda smutty but: Imagine the Sinclairs in a craze for you…

Vincent coming up behind you and wrapping his string arms around your waist, nuzzling into your neck, kissing your skin, loving you. He whimpers lightly until you look at him. He stops and kisses your lips, holding you closer and tighter until you melt away. He spins you around and lifts you up; you weigh nothing him. He kisses until you both pull away breathless. You hold his face and rests against his forehead, hanging your arms over his shoulders as he carries you to his bed. Vincent lays you down and treats you like royalty, taking everything nice and slow, rough and tender. He loves you so much that he doesn’t know what to do sometimes besides being near you.

Lester lifting you up to sit on his tailgate so he could rest his head in your chest, hands running up and down your thighs before warping you in a warm embrace. Your hands taking his hat off so you can play with his flatten curls while his kisses linger down your jaw over your neck. He just wants you in his arms and litter you with so much kisses while mumbling “I love you” the whole time. Then he cups your cheeks and kisses you deeply and passionately, bruising your lips until they’re numb. His hands fall over your breast and massages you, whispering your name like a prayer, and he praises you like you’re his god. He’s so much in love with you that it drives him over the edge sometimes.

Bo having a bad day and just sees you coming to the shop with a jug of sweet peach ice tea. Him just meeting you in front of the shop to lift you up by your legs and smash his lips against yours. He wants you more and more, deeper and deeper the pit in his chest grows for you. He smiled against your lips and sits you on the front counter, kissing your neck, nipping at your skin, repeating “mine; all mine” until he’s so drunk off your scent he can’t stop staring at you, and his hands are so focused on rubbing your arms, thighs, neck. His lost eyes closing as he leans into your hands, kissing the palms and starts praising you for every little thing you do. “Le’me worship you, darlin’,” he’ll drawl, his southern voice so deep and heavy as he kisses you again. “Need you, sweetheart. Need ya bad.” And he lifts you up again only to carry you to a tailgate in the shop, lowering you down, kissing and marking you all over because he wants more and more and more of you. Bo loves you so much that he would burn for you, kill for you, die for you, hunt for you— everything he does, he’ll do it for you until you tell him to stop.

[kimaisalloren]

Stop comparing Vincent and Bok Su!!! They are NOT alike. Bok Su is a fucking loser and grimy and needs to brush her hair and she’s a vengeful piece of shit who flunked out of college!!!! If anything she’s more like rody and don’t come for me because Rody is a fuckimg creep and loser and I mean this affectionately but he was borderline obsessive over Manon and even though she explicitly broke up with him he is NOT babygirl he’s a creepy loser and “oh it was self defense from Vincent” uh take that up in court because self defense has to be reasonably justified and proportional to the violence threatened but still less than what should cause death. He stabbed Vincent MULTIPLE times and then BURNED HIM ALIVE like that’s violent and vengeful. Vincent is impulsive and obsessive. Noting the oil doesn’t equate to premeditation (though could be argued in a court of law) like Bok Su who very much planned out Myeong-hoon’s murder and the framing of Da-Jeong BUT it is still a crime of passion or SECOND DEGREE MURDER and ARSON stop the himbofication of rody!!! Rody is intelligent gifted kid with burnout, dropped out, and obsessive over one woman and even though she VERY CLEARLY broke up with him he still called her his gf and called her obsessively. Rody and bok su are FAR more alike than Vincent and Bok Su and I will die on this hill.

Edit: my friends take

[strawberryjamsara]

Thinking of the symbolic ramifications of Rody burning everything he cooks. As a polar opposite to Vincent who only thinks of making his dishes perfect and up to standards, Rody puts so much passion into everything that even a bowl of cereal catches on fire from the intensity. Too much heat without thinking if he will get burned. It’s why Manon left him, because his love is an all consuming fire, that just leaves everyone involved burned. Revenge is best served cold, but he sets Vincent on fire anyways. Vincent wanted to experience Rodys love, and so he experiences being burned alive in a crime of passion. What if I blew up?

[nipuni]

Hello Nipuni,

This isn't really an ask, but I wrote a little story poem about Vincent and Lucille, both of which I really like :) Here it is:

~~~***~~~

"A late October wind began to sing, from the north. In duet the sea waves riled up and began to lash out at the cliffs and wail for all they were worth. Lucille put down her book, enthralled in a flash, for her heart was filled with the ocean's soul, but though she heard its calling, Vincent did not. Like she'd told him before, in his chest was a hole, a pit filled with sharp ice, where it should have been hot and aflame, like what the ocean wished to convey through its screaming and singing with the wind as its guide and she knew not, as she watched his face then, with dismay, that his indifference, displeasure, was a guise meant to hide his own book, his own story, deep down in his heart, filled with darkness and loathing of both others and self, which she didn't, could not know; their hearts must be apart and this dark and horrible book firmly shut on his shelf.

"Mister Vincent," she said, turning to him from the window, at which she watched the waves soar, with unspeakable longing. "Let us go for a walk, let us with the wind mingle, In its passionate song find a sense of belonging."

Vincent looked up, from his practical paper of news and of business and things meant for men of his status. An eyebrow was arched, the mask of reading reserved for a little bit later, dark thoughts and jaw-clenching put on hiatus. Sharp words were brought to his tongue for this woman so strange, this woman so pitiably fanciful, innocent and romantic, she sent his damned, accursed heart far out of his range to control, sent his heartbeat and movements unpredictable, frantic, and his temper escaping from its papery cage, slipping through his steel fingers, fingers hardened by life, sending his insides twisting and turning with black, suppressed rage at himself and at her and at existence’s prison, casting between them the shadow of strife.

He donned his throwaway words with a chuckle and scoffed, "Go for a walk?" Then he thumbed at the cold, silver head of his cane as he thought. "I don't think so. Over this vile wind we won't hear ourselves think, save talk." He believed it was triumph with this statement he wrought, so he twitched his practical paper once more, preparing a theatre of silence and an occupation parade, when she moved with a face which deemed him a bore, away from the window, in her own masquerade; she summoned a servant, said, "My coat, if you please," and after donning it, turned, and spoke to him, prim: "What, Mister Vincent? I've a coat, I won't freeze. I know the way to the coast and it isn't too dim. You don't wish to come with me? That's all very well, it will give me something to speak of later; a short story to tell."

Vincent felt his veins searing, his muscles go tight, he rose from his armchair; his paper was crushed - he had tightened his fist so he his temper could fight; a fight which he lost. His face became flushed, as he met with her stubbornness, will unmovable, cursed for he loved it and hated it and let his heart burn every time they argued and feuded, and he deemed it the worst, for these matters they fought over were as trivial as rhyme!

"Are you foolish?" he cried, though the answer he knew, "Are you mad, Miss Lucille? Do you wish to be dead? Have you lived so little years, have you lived them too few? Have you really so little gathered here, inside your head? You will go to the coast in this ridiculous storm?! Great heavens! What now!"

He scowled down at her slight, very beautiful form, and found a frown on her face from his part in this row. "And if you found me dead, Mister Vincent, what difference would it make?" His heart stilled at her words, but she wasn't quite done. "By far you've only treasured silence, deemed my presence a mistake with your snide words and cold comments which over warm ones have won. Not everybody's a poet. Not everyone's blessed with a heart. But you're aground, I'm adrift. I can and will move, as you stay still as stone-" Vincent couldn't take it. She was tearing him apart with her words without truth. Heavens! She said she felt alone! But she didn't know! She knew not that the reason he could breathe when before he was drowning in his own passionate sea and had to bury his heart, let it sleep buried beneath the rocks he built his existence upon to be free, was her! Her alone, with her strange, silly fancies, her words which woke up the parts of him he forgot he possessed, her books which she hid the titles of sheepishly, her romances, she alone put his howling, black demons to rest!

Lucille's eyes widened. She didn't know this sight, which appeared when his heart twisted into knots like a rope, when his pain clawed itself out of his chest in a bloodthirsty fight with the rest of his tolerance and remnants of hope. Vincent leaned on his cane. His breathing was short - his left breast was finally soaked with the red of his veins - no words would help him, it was no use to retort for Lucille was right to think of her own hidden pains, which he knew not how and thus did not reach her to soothe, too used to his stupid, practical papers and silence. The former now lay crumpled and wretched and he could not move, save whimper and clutch at his chest in an attempt at vigilance. "Mister Vincent," she whispered, as he fell into his chair. "You are bleeding… Your chest!" His cane fell with a clatter as his eyes disobeyed him, shedding a tear. "It's nothing," he managed, voice hoarse. "I just need to rest." He looked at her and whimpered; in her eyes… Was it fear? What was it of? Of his pain, or of him? Could it be that she held him even a little bit dear?

"Vincent," she spoke, her voice quiet and firm, "you're in terrible pain." He didn't speak; he could not. He clutched at his chest, repressing tears and helpless snarls in vain, this damned stoic facade finally put to the test, and failing spectacularly. Lucille moved to his side. She was a step away, so close yet so impossibly far. "I hurt you," she spoke. She didn't seem surprised, nor unwilling to take a leap, far over this bar of propriety and tension still hanging thick in the air, as she abandoned all harnesses and sat in his chair- On his knees. Vincent froze, then relaxed at her touch, into her touch, as she placed a hand to his cheek. It was so gentle, so warm, so perfectly much, So strange, so alive, so needed, unique to this setting of dark and cold that he lived in, with his intestines, organs in shreds, from years of eating ice, from being the grounded cliffs which pierced the sea upon which memories were adrift in. And now he found himself on the doorstep of paradise.

"Lucille…" he breathed, his hands reaching out. Like a reckless child he embraced her, pressed her to his ravaged chest. "Don't go out in this storm…” he managed, “I know I need not shout… But so much bad can happen. You'll catch a chill at best. And what if something worse passes? What if… the sea takes you?" She warmed him with her embrace, so he could breathe again. "I know you hold the sea dear." He tried to smile, but failed. "I used to love it, too." Memories of waves and taken love made him wince in pain. Lucille watched him with her mismatched eyes, his blood soaking her white dress. She took a breath and sighed. "I understand," she said. "It was in the papers years ago, and so I will not press." Vincent finally said it. "It was I, who my brother to the stormy shores had led. It was my fault he went so early.” He hadn't spoken it for years, his brother's untimely death, his last words still ringing in his ears. His voice cracked like splitting rocks, as he remembered him, and pain. "I don't want you gone, Lucille. Please don't think that way." He clutched her tighter, as tight as he dared, and she did not complain. "In fact… The reason I can smile a little is because you stay."

She looked at him with her eyes wide, her lips parted in surprise, but not for long. She looked firm and clutched his hand, her chin tilted towards him. "Say it, then, Sir," she whispered, "don't wait for heart's demise." Vincent didn't dare believe it, but he took chance upon a whim: He enveloped her face in his hands, and though his heart paused beating, he bent down and said, "I love you", their lips and worn souls meeting."

~~~***~~~

HELLO!!! I need you to know that I've been losing my entire mind over this piece ever since I opened my inbox today. I don't know how you managed to capture the tone and characters and setting so well when I've shared so little about them!!! This is so spot on it can easily be a dream sequence in the actual story!!! It is also written so beautifully I'm restraining myself from making this an all caps wall of text singing your praises!!! I can't believe you wrote this about my characters I feel so undeserving oh my goddd you just breathed life into this little story in progress of mine and filled me with joy and motivation to work harder on it I can't thank you enough!!! This means so much to me I don't know how to convey it aarghhhhh THANK YOU SO SO MUCH 😭❤️❤️❤️❤️

[us3rnam3-r3dact3d]

the world (it burns through me)

Ao3 | 3.6k Words | Freelancer's POV

Gabriel Shaw raised his son in this fire house, in this office as Captain. And Asher’s dad was his lieutenant. And Milo’s dad was the beat cop who would divert his route to clear a scene when he heard the 10-19 was on a call. The house was fill of lineage, full of families of firefighters and their sons.

It was a lineage that you weren’t a part of.

_

Firefighter/EMT au. Darlin is still the black sheep. Quinn is still a problem. Sam is still a healer, of sorts. He still heals them, in a way.

TW: blood and injury, medical talk, burn out, passing out from exhaustion, generally dissatisfaction when receiving medical care, refusal of medical care

It was the winter after you flunked out of medical school and you were buttoning up the starched, navy EMT uniform shirt that you’d received a few hours before. Gavin thought that this was a good idea when you’d pitched it, but not for the reasons you’d brought up. You originally wanted to be an EMT as an appeal to your mother, who had, upon your withdrawal from school, languished that her youngest was as much of a disappointment as their older siblings. 

Your sister was a school teacher. Your brother was an artist. By ‘disappointment ,’ Mom meant ‘ not a doctor or lawyer .’

But you couldn’t stay in med school. You tried, you did. You took yourself as far as you could go. You pushed, pushed, tried so fucking hard. You didn’t sleep, skipped meals and social hour and ignored your phone when your friends called. And you were perfect. Straight A’s right up until the end. 

And then Damien found you on the floor of your kitchen at the end of finals week. You’d burned as long and as bright as you could, but by the end, all you were was burnt out. 

Your boys dragged you kicking and screaming to unenrollment. 

Two months later, Gavin insisted that you do something. Not for the money, that wasn’t an issue. What he’d already earned off of his OnlyFans could carry you two for the rest of your lives, let alone what he was yet to make. When you two got serious, Gavin made it clear that you didn’t have to work, that you could leave school and chase a passion, chase a dream. But all you had was medical textbooks and the hazy vision of being a surgeon of some type some day. You wanted to put that prefix in front of your name, hang up your diploma in the living room so everybody could see it. 

You didn’t know if you loved medicine. You thought that you probably just loved a job well done. 

Your hair was a mess. You smoothed it down in the little mirror affixed to the door of your locker. You caught sight of your surname embroidered in gold on the breast of your uniform shirt. Sam had gotten it done the day after your interview. Vincent said that he’d never seen Sam be so sure of something so fast. 

It was no use staring at your reflection. You’d always find something to tweak if you squinted hard enough. You shut your locker and made your way out of the bunk room. 

Station 10-19 was nice, very nice. A huge locker room, individual shower stalls, full sized beds with pressed white sheets. The kitchen had two ovens, a huge fridge, and the biggest pantry you’d ever seen. The firehouses you’d visited while getting certified were much smaller, much less impressive. All of this must have cost a fortune. 

“Shaw’s a master of budget balancing,” Vincent had told you that afternoon during your tour. “I swear, the dude spends hours sitting in his office crunching numbers. It’s honestly a little worrying.” 

You’d met David Shaw in your interview, but Sam Collins was your direct report. Shaw was a big dude, but after meeting a few of the other firefighters, you just started considering yourself scrawny. The whole firehouse was full of mutant giants.

Everybody was nice, but Vincent acted like he’d just gained a new best friend when he’d introduced himself that afternoon. He was a tall, slender man with bright gray eyes and a sharp smile. You recognized his last name, Solaire. His dad was the chief of surgery at Daliah General, the only level one trauma center in the area. It was your top pick for your residency. 

Solaire wasn’t a common name, but if Vincent was the son of a two time Harper-Avery winner, he didn’t show it. He moved with a cool confidence, and seemed to have that same confidence in you. He spoke to you like you knew what you were doing. Which, to be fair, you did. You just weren’t used to people treating you like it. 

“Don’t let Sam’s grumpy attitude fool you,” Vincent grinned as he led you towards the ambulance. “He’s a softy. A bit rough around the edges, but soft for sure.” 

You couldn’t imagine Sam Collins being soft, but you smiled and nodded anyway. Vincent showed you where everything was on the bus, and then reiterated the few things that you would likely actually use. The compression machine, the heart monitor, the AMBU bag. 

When the first code blared in your ears just as Vincent finished shoving everything back into their assigned cubbies. He grinned and patted you on the back, jumping up to the front and hopping on the radio as he revved the bus’s engine. 

Sam made his appearance a few seconds later, hopping into the bus and pointing you towards one of the two passenger seats in the back, strapping himself in. He nodded for you to do the same. 

It was quiet for a long time. Vincent called a few things into the radio before shouting back to Sam. 

“Single vic, third story apartment. Not sure the extent of the injuries. Landlord just found a blood trail.” 

“Let’s prep for a GSW and a laceration.” Sam replied. He grabbed for a few things within reach and threw them into his jump bag. “BleedStop’s over your head, Probie, grab me a few.” He held out his hand. It took you a second to realize he was talking to you. You jerked and reached up blindly, coming back with a few red and white packages. 

“Are these standard issue?” You asked softly, flipping one over in your hand. You heard Vincent laughing from up front. Sam grinned. 

“You were in medical school?” Sam asked after a few minutes. You nodded. “Internal medicine, peds…”

“Surgical.” You answered his unasked question. You ducked your head, looked away. Sam was quiet for a long moment. “I was four years into my residency when I called it quits.” He said. When you looked up, he was focused on the computer output, a pinch in his brow. You didn’t dare ask a question, break his concentration, but something in your chest eased. 

After roughly three minutes of sirens wailing and lights flashing, Vincent pulled up outside of a dilapidated, five story apartment building. This was the sort of street that you would refuse to let Gavin walk down alone, the sort of area you wanted Huxley next to you in. You shivered and kept close to Vincent as he loaded a jump bag on each of your shoulders. 

“It’ll be bloody.” Sam cracked his neck in anticipation. “Just keep your cool. You don’t gotta do much this time around, Probie. Watch the two of us closely and try to keep up.” You nodded sharply and followed him into the building. 

The landlord was waiting for you in the lobby (if this could be called a lobby). He was a short, round man with more bald spot than hair. He was tapping something out on his phone, the font blown up to such a big size you could read his message from this distance. You politely avoided looking at it, instead planting your gaze between his bushy eyebrows and trying to carry an air of confidence about you. 

“Finally,” he huffed, attaching his phone to the little plastic holster on his belt, “took you guys long enough. It’s upstairs, third floor.” He slammed a set of keys into Sam’s hand and turned on his heel, retreating through an office door. You heard the lock slide in place before any of you could say anything. 

“We’ve got the fastest response times in Dahlia.” Sam shouted after him, his face twisted up with annoyance. “Come on,” he turned towards the elevator and took a deep, calming breath. His rugged features somehow looked more handsome when pinched with frustration. The line between his eyebrows was present even as his face relaxed. 

The elevator doors opened to a pool of drying, congealing blood. Vincent whistled, shaking his head. 

“Dude,” he had the nerve to laugh, “these people really don’t like being alive. Whoever this is should have gone straight to the hospital.” The three of you piled in, stepping carefully around the blood. It resulted in you being awkwardly pressed against three separate walls. Vincent stretched to press the button for the third floor. 

“Look at where we are.” You waved your hand around the concerningly rickety elevator. “If they can only afford to live here, I’d bet they don’t have health insurance either.” 

Vincent’s face slackened in confusion, as though that thought had never occurred to him. 

“Dahlia Gen has a free clinic for that very reason.” Sam said. The elevator groaned and he caught the handrail nervously.

The blood trail continued when the doors opened, leading you straight to the vic’s apartment. The door was painted a sloppy brown color, the latest in a long line of landlord-specials. It was peeling around the corners, revealing white, beige, yellow, green…

Sam inspected the door for a few seconds before leaning into his radio. 

“Engine Two to Dispatch, confirm no PD?” He kept his voice low. His radio crackled as a voice called back. 

“Confirmed, Engine Two.” Dispatch replied. “Paramedics were the only ones called to the scene.” Sam sighed softly and scratched his head. 

“Cap?” Vincent asked. 

“Proceed with caution.” Sam replied. “You two stay behind me. We don’t make any moves until we see what we��re dealing with.” 

Sam stepped up to the door and knocked hard, three times, with the side of his fist. “DFD,” he shouted, “Paramedics, open up!”

There was no reply. 

“Hello!” Sam called again. “Paramedics!” 

Something shifted behind the door. You heard a curse, a stumble. Sam backed up and herded you and Vincent away from the door. 

It swung open wide. The apartment inside was dark and barren, like somebody had just moved in. A slumped figure was leaning against the doorway. You could see where the bloodtrail was coming from. Their hand was pressed firmly against their side. The steady drip of their blood against the floor made your stomach turn.

Were you really ready for this? Maybe medical school wasn’t so bad. 

“What?” They growled. Their shoulders were tensed and drawn up to their ears. 

“Jesus.” Sam breathed. He was stunned into silence for a moment, but only a moment. He jerked and then moved slow, indicating his movements boldly, so as not to surprise them. 

Even hunched over and bleeding, they cut an intimidating figure. Clad in a pair of ratty sweatpants and a muscle tee, you could see every inch of lean muscle and scar tissue that made them up. They were as tall as most of the firefighters in the 10-19. You thought they’d fit right in against Lieutenant Talbot’s frame, that they could hold their own in a fist fight against Captain Shaw. 

“You can leave.” They spat, their teeth lined with blood. They had something wild in their eyes, and you were concerned for a moment that they would lash out at Sam to get him away. He held strong, though, didn’t back down or look away. “I’m fine.” 

“You’re bleeding.” He pointed to their hand and cocked his head to the side. 

“This is private property.” They gritted out, close to a growl. 

“Private property owned by your landlord.” Sam nodded. “Who called us. You gonna bleed out on your feet or are you gonna let us in?” He put a hand out to steady them as they listed to the side. They jerked away from him. 

“Don’t fucking touch me!” They snapped, curling in on themself. 

“Well, excuse me for trying to help you!” He held his hands up in surrender, telegraphing his movements even as he griped. “Keep barkin’ at me like that and I’ll let you bleed out.” 

“Yeah well, my bite’s much worse.” They managed. They had gone a bit green and, when Sam reached for them again, they didn’t protest. 

“Well, ain’t you just darlin’.” Sam drawled. His face had gone serious, his focus pulled to the blood dripping down their side and the leg of their pants. “Come on, let’s get you sat down before you fall out.” 

Sam started steering them towards the patch-covered couch that sat in the center of the room. The apartment was a studio, although even that felt like a generous description. It was, really, a dingy, gray box. A sink sat dry in one corner next to a mini fridge and a poor excuse for a counter space. There was no bed, just the dirty, brown couch that looked as though it had been pulled from off the curb. A large section of the lumpy middle cushion was darkened with blood. There was one window that you didn’t think even you could fit out of, let alone your hulking patient. A shadeless lamp sat on the floor in the corner opposite the sink, casting the room in stark, dramatic shadow. 

Sam deposited your patient on the couch, where they collapsed in a heap of muscle and blood. He snapped on a pair of white gloves and held a hand out to Vincent, who snagged a jump bag from your shoulder and supplied him with the gauze he was apparently reaching for. It would be difficult, you thought, to keep up with them at first. These two seemed to be so familiar, so connected that they didn’t have to talk to know what the other needed. 

“Can you tell me your name?” Sam asked, raising his voice to try and cut through the buzz that blood loss left in the ear. “And where you are?” 

“I’m fine,” your patient groaned, shoving at Sam as they tried to sit up again. 

“Hold still .” Sam used his forearms to press them back into their couch without contaminating his gloves. “You’re gonna tear your stomach right open if you don’t ease back.”

“You need to work on your bedside manner, Doctor.” The patient grinned. Their face had gone sheet white. 

“Well, good thing I’m not a doctor, Darlin’.” He replied. Actually, you thought, he was. If he had been in his residency, he would’ve had to have a medical degree. He was a doctor, license or not. 

You reached for the BleedStop you’d stashed in the bus just as Sam’s hand swung back again. When you clapped the pack down in his palm, he turned, surprised. Vincent bumped your shoulder with his, smiling broadly.

“This is gonna sting.” Sam informed them before dumping the BleedStop over the wound and packing it with gauze. They shouted, short and hard, as they clamped a hand down on Sam’s shoulder. Vincent jerked as though to pull them off, but Sam shook his head sharply. Vincent backed off. “Saline,” He said, holding his hand back to you. You dug through your bag quickly before finding a pint of it. Vincent supplied a large syringe. 

Watching Sam work on a patient was like watching an artist paint. He had an intense air of focus about him, and his whole face lit up when he bent over the wound. He watched with rapt attention as the bleeding slowed and clotted. After a few minutes, he pulled a syringe full of saline from the bag and rinsed out the BleedStop. 

It was a stab wound, surrounded by ugly, red and purple bruising. It looked as though someone had punched the blade into them. 

“Can I lift this up?” Sam asked, indicating their shredded and blood-blackened shirt. They nodded sharply once. You watched as their steely face crumbled a bit as Sam touched them. Their bottom lip trembled. “Hey,” Sam said softly, freezing until they met his eye, “it’s gonna be okay. You’re gonna be okay.” He said it like it was true, like there was no doubt about it. 

In the end, despite the stab wound and the slash on their thigh and the obviously broken ribs and their split lip and their bloodied knuckles, they refused to go to the hospital. Sam spent fifteen odd minutes arguing with them. Honest-to-God arguing, shouting, cursing, lecturing. You thought that was probably against protocol, but he was right, so you weren’t going to snitch to Captain Shaw about it. The stab wound was concerning enough. The broken ribs were dangerous. One bone fragment, one twist of the skin to make it a compound fracture, one stutter of their lungs in just the wrong way. It could all prove deadly. They let Sam use suture glue on the stab wound and the cut, let him dab anesthetic against their knuckles, let him press a cold compact into their ribs. They didn’t let anybody else touch them. 

“There is a free clinic at Dahlia Gen.” Sam reiterated one last time as they hurried you out of the door. “If you start bleeding or have trouble breathing,” he patted around his uniform until he supplied a scrap of paper and pen from his breast pocket. He scrawled out a phone number and handed it over. Their fingers spread red across the crumpled, white paper. “Please call me.” 

The door shut hard in your faces. 

You made your way back through the blood stained halls. Sam turned the keys in to the landlord. You walked out into the crisp, winter air. 

“Are they all like that?” You asked as you took several deep breaths, free from the iron tang of blood that had permeated their apartment. 

“No.” Sam shook his head sharply. 

“It’s mostly drunk people.” Vincent assured you. 

“And kitchen knife incidents.” Sam chimed in. 

“And cardiac events.” Vincent nodded, hopping into the driver’s seat. You settled into the back of the ambulance with Sam and studied your hands. There was blood on the cuff of your uniform. Sam huffed and reached under his seat, pulling out a fresh uniform shirt. 

“Here, Probie.” He said. 

“Does it get easier?” You asked all of a sudden as you took the shirt from him. Sam smiled. 

“The blood?” He asked. “Yeah. Yeah, the blood gets easier. But not much else.” 

The two of them were right. Somewhere along your drive back to the 10-19, you got a call for a possible cardiac event that turned out to be an anxiety attack. You held the hyperventilating kid’s hand, walked them through breathing exercises you’d learned for Lasko while Sam assured their mom it was nothing to worry about. Straight from there, you got a call for an older woman, Mrs. Henrick, who claimed she fell and broke her hip. She was apparently a widow and a frequent caller. She just wanted Sam to put her kettle on and to ogle at Vincent for a while. He was impressively obliging, and matched her flirting one for one. It was a few more hours of just that; bouncing from call to call, emergency to emergency, but nothing quite like that first one. 

It was nearing dawn by the time Engine Two was finally cleared to return to the 10-19. You were just this side of exhausted, the adrenaline that kept you pushing through the night long worn off. Vincent walked you through the breakdown of the bus. Checking off the medical supplies one by one on your little inventory sheet was almost meditative. It lulled you towards the rest you knew was coming. You were on call for the next twelve hours, and then you’d be off for another twelve. You longed for that plush bunk room and the reprieve a few hours of rest would give you. 

Captain Shaw was in the kitchen when you and Vincent clambered in. He had looked so severe when you met him in your interview, clad in the navy button down of his daily uniform. He must have been getting on duty, because now he was wearing a tight, heather gray t-shirt with the Dahlia Fire Department logo emblazoned across his back. The shirt was stretched across his chest and arms, giving you a full view of his musculature. Sunlight filtered in through the windows, casting his dark features in warm, welcoming light. He was handsome. You couldn’t wait until you had an excuse to introduce him to Gavin. He’d have a field day with a man like David Shaw. 

“There can’t be that much blood in the human body,” he rumbled into his coffee cup. Sam laughed from his spot across the large, family style dining table that filled up most of the floor space in the room. There were pans out near the six burner stove; sausage, bacon, some weird looking strips of what must have been a vegetarian substitute. There was a plate stacked with pancakes, another stacked with waffles, and a bowl filled with sliced fruit. Two cartons of eggs were waiting, untouched, next to the stove. 

“You would be surprised how much a person can bleed and keep going if they have the will power.” Sam shrugged. He was flipping through a pile of paperwork, probably the releases from their calls tonight.

“Captain Shaw cooks every morning.” Vincent indicated towards the feast on the kitchen counter. “You should eat. Once morning shift gets in, it’ll be gone.” 

“And they refused transport to the hospital?” Shaw scoffed. 

“Yup.” Sam popped the ‘p’ in his mouth, shaking his head. He handed over a file from the top of his pile to Shaw, who flipped through their release form with only a bit of interest. 

His dark eyes flicked over the page once, and then widened. He sat up straighter, bending to get a better look at it. His eyes landed on the bottom of it, where your patient had printed their name next to their sloppy signature. 

Shaw’s coffee cup shattered in his hand, sending shards of ceramics and hot coffee all over him, the table, and the offending report.

[slashers-and-rats]

weeping willow.

vincent sinclair x gn!reader | sfw |

rat chat: this was supposed to be a dacryphilia thing, but it got real too sweet, so now it’s just fluff. he deserves it.

the low glow from the scattered candles cast soft shadows along the walls of the workshop. vincent had never noticed until now, but the way they warmed the room seemed to add a near romantic ambience. he was always focused on his art. he didn’t usually think of things like love or lust, opting to use up the space in his head for his craft and the bettering of his skills.

in this particular moment, he could barely remember he was in his workshop at all. if you had asked him what his passions were, he’d merely babble out the name of his love. his true love.

you.

the scene was set. vincent was laid back on the cot in the corner of his room, tattered blankets and pillows crumpled under his continually shifting body. he couldn’t sit still. not when you were over top of him, perched with his waist between your legs, and your figure looming over his own.

he liked the weight of you. it felt right. something about the way your own body pressed down into his seemed to ground him in reality. you were an anchor of sorts, he supposed. if you weren’t sitting on him right now, crowding his space with your presence, he would’ve drifted into the ether. he already felt dizzy, overwhelmed by your being.

it’s what you wanted. he knew it was. he could see it in the way you smiled; he felt it in the way you brushed your fingers up the side of his wax face. you wanted him to be drunk off of you.

“has anyone ever told you,” you began, twirling a lock of his hair around your pointer finger, “that you are just so beautiful?”

vincent recoiled at the words. he tried to hide the reaction, but he was sure you had seen it. he shifted underneath you again, hands bunching up beside your legs, eyes peeling away from your own. no, he had never been told such a thing. why would he have? it was patently untrue. his face alone caused people to turn away in disgust. the only character he had ever related to was frankenstein’s monster, and that really told you everything you needed to know about how he felt about himself. he was everything but beautiful in his eyes.

“hey, don’t look away from me,” you tutted, pinching his chin. you dragged his face back towards you, forcing vincent to make eye contact yet again. for the moment he had looked away, he was able to take a deep breath and recollect his surroundings. but, the second he looked at you, that weight settled down on him again, and he was back to drowning in your vision. “you’re beautiful, vinny. absolutely gorgeous. you know that, don’t you?”

vincent let out a breath, one he wasn’t aware he had been holding, and shook his head slow. if he was one thing, he was honest. the truth was, he didn’t know what he was, but he knew it wasn’t good. the things he had done alone should have barred him from any positive standards, and he didn’t believe his appearance did him any favours in earning him good graces.

you observed him for a moment, and it continued to make him squirm. like an ant under a magnifying glass, he was burning up. emotions were something that he didn’t like to pay attention to. they went into his art, and were used for nothing else. yet, here you were, pulling them out of him. he didn’t like it. he didn’t want to feel.

you cupped his cheek, dipping a thumb underneath the edge of his mask. it made him flinch, almost as if he was in pain, but you knew better. you were gentle as you ran your finger up and down his jaw line, a smile returning to your face.

“well, i think- no, i know you’re beautiful. you’re the prettiest thing i’ve ever seen, vinny.” your praise came so easily. it felt like warm milk and honey dousing his body. it had gone from scorching to a cozy warmth, your words wrapping around him like a cherished blanket. “you stand like a statue, all tall and strong. chiseled. you remind me of a willow tree. something about the way you hang over me. it feels magical. at least, to me it does… sometimes i think, in another life, you were some whimsical forest god. something people didn’t really understand, but they knew was special. something to be worshipped. do you understand?”

vincent did, but he couldn’t bring himself to voice that. your words had dug into his chest. he felt as though his skin was being torn apart, and all of his warm insides had been laid out for you to examine and speak on. he felt seen. it felt good, but in a painful way. moments like these, so gentle and sweet, also reminded him of those moments of sorrow, of being misunderstood and punished for it. it was a double edged sword, yet one he fell on with grace. he wanted you to keep plunging deeper and deeper.

his hands found your thighs, squeezing gently. he had to hold onto you in some way, otherwise he’d melt too far into his own thoughts, and he worried you might never be able to pull him out again. it all felt like too much. these were things he’d never heard before, emotions he’d never experienced; it was such a fresh wound. he was bleeding out, but you continued to drain him of all thought.

“you’re so talented. you make masterpieces. which is ironic, because i think you are one.” you giggled, sitting up to rest your hands on his chest. “kinda cheesy, i know, but… this is all to just say… i love you, vincent. i do. and i always will, unconditionally.”

those words were the twist of the blade.

he, without realizing, began having tears stream down his face. it was when your eyes widened with worry, and a small sob escaped him, that he did notice how much he was crumbling. he quickly whipped his hands up to his face, pulling the mask away so he could rub at his eyes while hiding himself behind his arm.

“don’t hide, vincent…” you whispered, pulling his limbs away so you could see him. he felt exposed as he wept. he could barely see through his smudged vision, and he tried to blink away the tears so that he could look at you properly. you helped by using your thumbs to swipe them away as they came, which, unknowingly, only helped to further his quiet weeping. “are you okay…? did i say something wrong?”

vincent immediately shook his head. you had only done right by him, that much he was sure of. you were too good to him, in fact. you made him feel so good, so oversaturated with joy, it felt like a pleasant suffocation. all the crying was was a release of that feeling, like a pot boiling over.

you seemed to understand, letting your peaceful grin come back. “these must be happy tears than, huh?” vincent nodded. you pressed a palm to his cheek, letting him push into it. his eyes closed as he focused on stopping his sobbing. “I’m so happy i can make you feel this… good, i guess? i didn’t mean to make you cry, but as long as it’s for good reasons, i don’t mind.” you leaned down, pressing a kiss to forehead. “plus, you look real pretty when you cry.”

vincent held onto those words, keeping them close to his chest. if you said them they must be true. maybe, he was pretty.

[maadvillainy]

Haii, I just love johnny vincent sm like, there aren't enough content of him 😭. I was wondering if I could request some hcs of him with a female cheerleader gf. How would he react to people having the hots for his girl 👀

of course ^_^ !

showtime

pairings: johnny vincent x fem!cheerleader reader warnings: swearing

✎ masterlist

authors note ❥ I'm genuinely so sorry for not popping this baby out months ago I just genuinely fell uninterested in writing for a bit. I'll try and be better about it 😞 With school coming up it's gonna be hard though, my apologies you guys. 🙏 My requests are still open for those who are interested, I will look at them and I will write them(eventually) but plzz be patient I'm a lazy ho🤕 thx guys! 🩷

・At first glance its like your eyes have been met with an angel. The face of a model stuffed into the teenage cheerleader that everyone had googly eyes for. It wasn't easy being you, and a lonely greaser had to find that out the hard way.

・JOHNNY, spotted staring at you in gym as you cheer. The sweet but loud voice you carried as you cheered. It was intriguing to him. The poor boy couldn't help it.

"Go team go!" You chant with the rest of your pyramid, you weren't a flyer today but you were always so enthusiastic. Johnny's prying eyes were caught on your face, then your uniform. He thought about your voice a lot too. Like his miniature cheerleader up in his noggin. He liked the way you smiled, the way you presented yourself to everyone. You were genuine to who you were, and most importantly you were passionate about it.

・First few weeks of interaction had him freaking OUT. He was so amazed by you he wanted to hold you in his pocket forever. Head over heels and for the most gorgeous, kind and spirited person on campus? Lonely boy had to make a move and fast because there were people scavenging for you and he had to make sure he was first in line.

・Anyways,

・Johnny likes watching you practice. Not because of the way your skirt flows in the breeze when its windy sometimes but because he gets to see you smile and laugh and talk and oh my gosh he just can't.

・Always attending games JUST to see you. In your pretty outfit and your pretty dolled up face he melts!!!!!!!!! Getting pelted by rocks in the stands never felt more worth it.

"How's my pretty baby?" Johnny walks up to you, smiling with a teddy bear and water bottle in hand. You grab the gifts and hug him close. "Great with you here Johnny." You relax in his arms. While drinking some of your water you caress his cheek, kissing his lips gently before being called over again. Intermission was over. "Mm I'll see you in a bit okay?" You smile, squeezing his hand in your own. "Go be beautiful I'll be right here." He grins, pressing a swift kiss to your hand. Literally not long after Johnny is being assaulted with kettle corn, ketchup packets and rocks.

・Likes looking at you. It makes him a little anxious though because you're so pretty he doesn't want anyone stealing you from him or you finding someone else. He knows you could have anyone you want yet you choose him, and stay with him. That reassures him for a little bit before he goes back to freaking out and watching you at all times. (It's endearing but when it goes too far it gets scary, girl run.)

・But he just loves you so much like?? Don't you ever leave that man because he will treat you like a princess no doubt.

"Johnny─you've been staring at me for like...twenty minutes are you okay?" Hes just fucking drooling looking like an idiot as his eyes burn through your skull. He thinks your so pretty bro im not joking around. That boy worships the ground you walk on. He's like─"Yes queen!!! Eat them up queen!!!" He will never get bored of staring.

・Broseph gets insecure :-( tell him u love him or so help me I will😠😠 I feel like he generally has bad self esteem issues deep down. He likes it when you kiss him and tell him he's handsome. He won't do "pretty" because it makes him feel less of a man. But you're just speaking your mind...he is pretty like... He still gets a lil grumpy and hostile but its okay just keep saying he's cool n stuff and he'll be right by you in no time with no avail!

・Big time intimidation game with the rest of your clique, he puffs his chest and stuff but never will that man act on a buff jock. He will definitely kick on Kirby though he don't gaf about that weenie.

・His clique loves you no lie, they think your sweet eye candy and your really nice and funny?? Johnny really hit the jackpot yknow. I wouldn't be joking if I said at least one of them tried seducing you or hitting you up which lead to Johnny demolishing their face against the wooden boards of the fence! Yikes!

・Love u so much... Like I already said this shit but that boy ooof, he's all over you all the time.

"Baby, Johnny!" You giggled as he kissed along your neck and collarbone, exposed by the cheer outfit you wore. He was so gentle but so eager, his lips dragging across your pretty skin so delicately. It was delicious, the pretty boy kissing all on you while you sat there, late for cheer practice, again. He trailed his kisses upwards, landing them up back to your plush lips. "You're so gorgeous sweetheart, makes my heart hurt." He muttered against your lips, leaning in for a another. You were warm all over, holding his face in your hands as you made out behind the school.

・I'm really just running out of things to say because this request seemed similar to the last one.

・Yes it took me fucking months to write this I'm a procrastinator level one hundred and I'm a fat lazy bum.

[replaycamera2]

Flowers I Associate With Redacted Characters

Davey - Honeysuckle The canon choice. His mom’s honeysuckle are a core memory for him. They mean “devoted affection” for the person you love. In addition, honeysuckle flowers are commonly planted near the home to evoke feelings of nostalgia and honor those who have gone before you, and draw happiness and positive energy into your life.

Ash - Daffodil Sunflower is a little too big for Asher’s character. Daffodils are smaller, but no less energetic with their bright orange and yellow colours. They symbolize hope, joy, good luck, and new beginnings. Daffodils are the March birth flower and are associated with the coming of spring, thus optimism, positivity, and vibrancy.

Milo - Rose I toyed with the idea of something more representative of self-sacrifice like poppies but they didn’t feel like they represented Milo’s entire character, that’s just one tiny facet of him. I went with rose because that’s absolutely how Casanova sees himself. Deep red roses in particular represent not only love and passion, but also deeply held commitment to a romantic partner.

Sam - Blue Hydrangea Blue hydrangeas specifically symbolize feelings of remorse and apologies. I thought that was fitting given Sam’s role in Frederick’s turning having not been paying attention that night. But they also signify feelings of deep understanding, gratitude, and sincere emotion which he’s found in Darlin’ in that they both have similar backgrounds of abusive partners and understand one another deeply on that level.

Vincent - Rain Lily These tiny, delicate flowers only bloom in the rain. Contrary to what one might expect, they can also survive periods of drought, though they won’t bloom until it rains. They represent the cycle of life, death, and rebirth: they bloom, die, then come back with the rain. They also remind us that even in a storm, growth is possible.

Gavin - Iris In Greek, the word Iris means Rainbow. This has come to represent diversity, acceptance, tolerance, and inclusivity in modern times. Traditionally, the Iris also represents courage and faith.

Damien - Ixora A lesser known tropical flower with many tiny red flowers making a larger head, these flowers hold a meaning of burning passion (and that includes the bedroom). They’re also known as “the flame of the woods”.

Hux - Sunflower Tall and huge, these well-known flowers not only represent happiness, but red sunflowers specifically represent strength and positivity. Sunflowers are known to always look at the sun as it crosses the sky throughout the day.

Lasko - Pansy Ignoring the negative connotations of the word, pansies represent love, both romantic and platonic. The French word “pensee” means “to think” which Lasko does a lot of (a little too much at lighting speeds lol) and so pansies are also associated with thoughtfulness, consideration, and free-thinking. They are also linked to feelings of nostalgia and remembrance. Blue pansies specifically symbolize devotion, honesty and loyalty.

[phantobats]

House of wax!!!

Rewriting House of Wax with Batfam characters:

I've watched house of wax and i personally loved it ! So here is my idea on how i would fit the Batfamily into this horror movie, if i had to write a fic:

"House of Wax: Wayne Legacy"

Plot Overview:

Stephanie Brown (Carly) and Jason Todd (Nick) are siblings on a road trip with their friends, en route to a major event in a nearby city. Their journey takes a dark turn when their car breaks down near a remote, eerie town with a mysterious wax museum at its center. The town, nearly forgotten by time, harbors a tragic history tied to the Wayne family—once known for their wealth and influence, now shrouded in madness and death.

Backstory: The Wayne Family Tragedy

The town of wax was originally the brainchild of Martha Wayne, a renowned philanthropist with a passion for art. She envisioned the town as a living museum, where the artistry of wax sculptures would preserve the beauty of life forever. After the tragic deaths of Martha and her husband, Thomas Wayne, their son Bruce inherited the project. However, grief over his parents' deaths consumed him, and he abandoned the project. His despair ultimately led to his suicide, leaving behind his three sons, Damian, Dick, and Tim, who were born from a relationship with Talia al Ghul. Raised in isolation, the boys grew up in the shadow of their parents' legacy, their minds twisted by loss and a desire to honor the Wayne name.

Now adults, the three brothers—Dick and Tim, who were once conjoined twins, and Damian, the youngest—have taken over the town of wax, turning it into a nightmarish reflection of their family's tragic history.

Arrival at the Town:

After their car breaks down, Stephanie, Jason, and their friends decide to explore the nearby town in hopes of finding help. They soon encounter Damian Wayne (Lester), a seemingly innocent boy who offers to guide them to the local mechanic. However, there's something unsettling about him that sets Jason on edge. Despite his suspicions, the group follows Damian to the heart of the town—the wax museum.

The Wax Museum:

Inside the museum, they are amazed by the lifelike quality of the wax figures, unaware that these sculptures were once living people, encased in wax by the Wayne brothers. As they explore further, Stephanie and Jason become separated from their friends, and the horrifying truth begins to unravel.

The Brothers Wayne:

The museum is revealed to be a deadly trap, with the Wayne brothers—Dick and Tim, the conjoined twins (formerly Bo and Vincent Sinclair), and Damian—hunting down the intruders. Dick (Bo), the charming yet ruthless leader, manages the town’s facade, drawing in unsuspecting victims. Tim (Vincent), the talented but disturbed artist, uses his skills to turn their prey into grotesque wax statues, while Damian (Lester) lures and manipulates the visitors, using his youth and innocence to disarm them.

As Stephanie and Jason try to find their friends, they discover the tragic history of the Wayne family, learning about Bruce Wayne’s demise and the brothers’ warped attempts to continue their parents' legacy.

The Fight for Survival:

Realizing the danger they are in, Stephanie and Jason must outwit the Wayne brothers to escape the town. Stephanie uses her quick thinking and resourcefulness, while Jason relies on his strength and protective instincts. As they uncover more of the town’s dark secrets, they are horrified to find their friends transformed into wax statues.

The final confrontation takes place in the burning ruins of the wax museum, where Jason and Stephanie must face the Wayne brothers in a desperate battle for survival. In the chaos, the museum’s structure collapses, engulfing the town in flames. Stephanie and Jason narrowly escape, but the fate of the Wayne brothers remains uncertain, leaving the possibility that they might still be alive, hidden in the shadows.

[aquagirl1978]

Your Body Is My Canvas - Vincent van Gogh x Reader (Ikemen Vampire)

A/N: Happy Birthday Vincent!

Pairing: Vincent x Reader

Prompt: Reader wants a tattoo, but Vincent has thoughts

Word Count: 477

Tags: fluff with the slightest hint of spice at the end

“Stay still,” Vincent said softly, his long fingers wrapping around your wrist, his grip firm as he held you in place.

“It tickles.”

“Sorry,” Vincent apologized. His bright blue eyes, clear as the sky above, flicked up momentarily to meet yours, his attention immediately returning to his work. “I’m almost done.” 

His touch was ever so gentle as he brushed the last pink petal onto your skin, completing his work.

“There,” he said, letting your wrist go free, your skin already missing his touch. Looking down at your forearm, you found a delicate branch of cherry blossoms now decorating your skin. 

“I think this one might be my favorite.”

“You say that everytime.”

“But this time it’s true. I love it so much, I’d like to make it permanent….”

“No,” Vincent replied simply.

You looked at him confused. A few times, you had broached the idea of getting a tattoo of one of his pieces, but for one reason or another, nothing ever came to fruition. Someway, somehow, Vincent always skirted the idea and quickly changed the subject. 

“Why?” you implored, admiring the artwork adorning your arm. “I can’t imagine a better way to show my love and appreciation of your art.”

“And mar your skin?” He traced an outline of the branches on your arm, the ghost of his touch sending sweet tingles throughout your body. He tilted your chin with his thumb, lifting your gaze to meet his. “You are my muse, and your body is my canvas. Every inch of your body is precious to me. While I appreciate your desire to make this permanent, that would take away space for future art.”

He took your hand in his; bringing your joined hands to his lips, he brushed a soft kiss across your knuckles. His blue eyes burned with an intense passion; the way he looked at you stirred a heat below your belly.

“I can always get a new canvas, I can’t get a new you.” 

Heat rose to your cheeks at his words. Vincent had a way of making you feel things, forcing you to see yourself in a completely different light. Maybe it was the artist in him, how he saw the world in a different way than most, that he was able to do this.

With your free hand, you cupped his cheek and brought your face to meet his. “Okay,” you whispered, your lips melting into his in a sweet kiss. 

“That and…” Vincent nipped at your lower lip, pleasure rippling through your body in gentle waves as his hand moved to caress your curves. “I don’t want anyone else to touch your body the way I do.”

Cradling your head, he gently guided your body to lie in the grass, hands still linked as you spent the remainder of the afternoon joined together under the cherry blossom tree.

Tagging: @redheadkittys @chaosangel767 @ikehoe @kpop-and-otome @lucyw260 @queengiuliettafirstlady @kisara-16 @lordsisterxotome @umi-adxhira @crypticbibliophile @tele86 @nightfoxqueen @wendolrea @randonauticrap @judejazza @maries-gallery @xbalayage @xenokiryu @nightghoul381 @alydra @ranhanabi777 @silver-dahlia @fang-and-feather @lunaaka

[early20sfailingplenty]

Ugh Eri my brain is being mean to me :(

Do you think the Sinclairs would like a chubby partner? I’m a bit in the heavy side and I feel like they wouldn’t find me attractive:/

Especially Bo, he seems like the guy to like skinny and pretty partners:/

I know the Sinclairs would love a chubby partner!!!! Are you kidding????🥺Those men have been starved of love their whole lives, so much so that it may as well be a foreign concept to them. It exists only in fairy tales and stories, never in real life. Sure, Vincent acts on it with Bo as a team effort to carry on their mother's legacy, but cruelty was how she expressed 'love' (or that was how she framed it; the Sinclairs still don't know much better, even as we meet them in canon) and so they continue on with that, too.

Cruel is the world, crueler still were their parents, and the Sinclair men use that against everyone including themselves. They know little of love. Devotion, yes, loyalty, yes, passion, yes, but love? Bo scoffs at the notion, Lester smiles but it's weak at the edges, and Vincent nods sagely but on the inside, bitterness burns his throat like acid. Hatred for that which has never been really his. Or his brothers'.

They knew little about it until you. The flowers which bloom in their hearts when you walk into the room, the way Bo's cheeks get a little hotter when you turn around (he hates to see you go, but loves watching you leave - he's a pervert just like his brothers), the way Vincent cannot help but stare after you as you move around the room. You are beautiful and each of the brothers have their own favourite thing about you; physically and otherwise!

They care not for how you look, they care only for how you feel; are you dressing comfortably, eating well? Whatever those two things mean for you; if you're comfortable, then they're happy!💖 The Sinclairs never knew what love really was until they met you, and now they have found you, they will never let you go.

That's a threat and a promise!

[small-sinclair]

Hello, it's me again, hope you're having a wonderful day ^u^. I was wondering what your headcanons for how the Sinclair trio (individually not poly) would handle a reserved S/O getting completely drunk for the first time and becoming a smiley, chatty, sociable butterfly but also so out of control - can't walk straight, can't do anything without breaking things XD Loved your last reply to my ask btw

Hello, again :3

Tw: drunk reader, love confessions, a bit of angst

The Sinclair Brothers with a drunk s/o

Part 2

Bo: Tucks you In

The moment he sees you stumble after you seventh shot of his strongest whiskey, he's laughing to himself, shaking his head. He'll take his time to gather you up and clean your mess because he's also drunk with you, but at least he hasn't tried to set the piano on fire.... twice!

And, for some reason, you started talking to a house plant and plotted a plan to take over Louisiana? Bo was impress, thinking, 'A ten-step-plan on taking down the governemt? Darling, you're so amazing!

Anyways, he takes your hands and pull you closer, your drunk lips meeting his to taste his last beer. Bo help up his hands in shock, but his eyes roll back as he returns the kiss, bringing it deeper and passionate. He feels you tug his shirt, standing on your tipy-toes, arms around his neck, and smiling against his lips. To Bo, you feel fucking amazing! He burns for you, but... not like this. He can't take you like this. There's too much regret that'll follow on your end, and he can't pick up that mess. No matter how strong he is, he can't do that.

"Ya made quit the mess, darlin'," he hums. "Should getcha t'bed." He pushes back your hair, admiring your little smile in the broken glass.

"You'll sleep-" hick-up "-with me, right?" You giggled. You feel lighter than a feather as you lean against him. "Keep-" hick-up "-keep me warm."

Bo wants to take that offer, but he wants your mind to be straight, keep your mind and fears in the morning just on the mess you made in the living room. "No, y/n," he whispers, planting a kiss on your head. "'M lettin' ya have t'bed to yourself."

"But snuggles!"

Again, he pulls you into a kiss, shutting you up. When he pulls away, he guides you to bed and helps you undress and in your pjs. He'll give you a kiss goodnight and turn on the bathroom light for you.

"Stay with me?" you asked, taking his hand. "Just-" hickup "-just until I sleep?"

He gives you a carefree smile as he sits on the edge as he holds your hand. He hums a gentle lullaby and watches your drunk-self go to sleep. Bo leans down and kisses your temple, brushing your hair. He decided a couple things that night: keep you away from liquor, make sure you're already in your pjs, and to turn on the nightlight so you don't trip. But the most important thing came up, too.

He decided that you stolen his heart the first time you took a shot without flinching at the burn.

When you wake up, you realize something that almost seems to sad but blissful at the same time: you had your first kiss, and it was with Bo Sinclair.

And you will never tell him.

Vincent: Cuddle Bug

As he leads you back to bed, you knocked over his tools and some of his harden wax. Luckily, he already put away the real hare for the night when you told him about the mixed drinks you wanted to try. After making two AMFs, downing a pitcher of Bo's mixture, and taking shots with Lester, you were two sheets from the window. You leaned against him as he guided you down the steps, holding you up as you giggled about every little thing. Under different situations, Vincent would admire you and your clumsy nature.

He undresses you and has you put on your shirt, but your head got caught in the sleeved and had him help you. He felt like he was taking care of Bo all over again when he didn't know his limits.

As he lays you down, you pull on his sleeve, asking, "Can I-I lay on your chest, Vincent? Please?" You whined as you pulled him closer. "I-I love smelling you." A grin formed as you kissed his mask; you've never done that before. "I love you."

He knows your drunk; you don't mean it. You don't love him... but still...

"Cuddle me to sleep?" You asked again. "Please?"

He gives in and takes off his boots. Climbing in and going under the covers, you wiggle up and rest your head on his chest, right over his heart. You close your eyes and slurred, "I wanna marry you one day."

He can't say anything. Stop giving him false hopes of having a family with him. Stop it!

"And I wanna have kids and-" hick-up "-and have you love me every day!" You look up at his mask and laid a hand on his cheek. "I wanna see your pretty face every day, cuddle bug." You giggled as you lowered your head. "I love you, Vincent. I love... love you."

Blissfully, you drifted to sleep as you hold his shirt tightly like a blanket, snuggling into his chest like a pillow. The rest of the night, he holds you close and rubs your back, his heart breaking with every breath you take.

Lester: Passing Out

Lester isn't a heavy drinker, but he'll take a few shots with you, down a beer, and still have room for a jello shot. Where's all that alcohol going in him? Listen, no one knows, but you try to keep up with him and fail.

"Did you know that-that you're cute?" You asked as you pinched his cheeks, giggling and blushing. "You're just the cutest!"

Lester believes you for a moment as he takes away your empty beer bottle. "Yeah, sweet pea?"

You giggle and mimc him, "Sweet pea." You lean forward and kiss his neck. "You talk cute and funny, too."

"Yer drunk, dear," he laughs as he leans back on the couch for you to lay down. "But y'all funny, too."

You feel sleep start taking you. "Yeah?" You yawned. "How?"

"Yer just are, hon," he looks down at you as he watched sleep take you. "I love you," he confessed as you started to drift. "I know ya won't remember me sayin' it, but I love ya, y/n. I love ya so much it hurts." He hears your small snores, and he frowns. "Y'alls so bright and happy lik' a kitten. Yer my kitten." He closes his eyes and shake his head. He reaches behind him and turned on the lamp. "Sleep well, darlin'. Dream well an' dream o' lovin' someone. Lovin' Bo. Lovin' Vincent. But not of me," he smiles sadly at you and kisses your hand. "Never dream of me, sweet pea." He looks up at the ceiling and closes his eyes, whispering, "Night, little owl. Love ya."

When you wake up, you don't remember his confession, and you didn't dream about his brothers. Your dream was your wedding day, and Lester holding your hand for forever.

What a silly and sad dream to have, y/n.

[smokechef-vince]

You.. How do YOU do it.. How is it all so perfect for you?? Why is your life so perfect.. I did as much as I could-!! YET I FAILED HORRIBLY AND NOW MY LIFE IS GONE!! YOUR LIFE IS SO DAMN CLOSE TO PERFECT- YET MINE IS BASICALLY HELL!! I LIVE WITH SOME GUY.. WHO WAS STUCK IN AN ELEVATOR FOR WHO KNOWS HOW LONG!??! I NEED HELP!! HOW DO I GET MY LIFE BACK!!?!? HOW DO I LIVE AGAIN!? HOW DO YOU LIVE!?! -Vincent 🔪💔🖤 (ooc: damn bro why you so emo vince? </3)

That’s the thing.

We’re destined to be alone forever. You think my life is so perfect? The anger, and pain. An emptiness. You have reason, reason to keep going. I don’t know how to life. Hell, I’m not alive at this point.

I need to be buried. To be burned. For my own well being to burn as did my passion did when I lost my lust for life when I lost my taste. They promised. They promised.