#anyways yeah im gonna eat and try to finish these socks tonight

[the-kipsabian]

before i go into my hidey hole for the rest of the night to finish some socks while my hardware burns to the ground, im not telling you to look at my new blog title but i totally have a new blog title lol

[celebrityfootlicker]

Ben Jordan - Foot story

Ben had been my roommate for 3 months now ever since he moved in he’s been different from the friend I used to have he’s turned into a jerk maybe it was his true colors or he was just putting up a face as my roommate now either way he always demanded things from doing the dishes for him to cleaning his clothes. I had finished up washing my dishes when Ben came into the kitchen “Hey man I got something to talk to you about” nodding you both walk into the living room and sit down “your past roommate talked to me a while ago and told me about some things you used to do like smelling his socks” my face flushed red I hoped this wouldn’t happen having a foot fetish was bad enough but now he’s going to think I’m a creep I try to get a word out but Ben pauses me “I want to make you an offer” I nod confused “from now on your going to do all the chores in the house along with cooking for me and other things I tell you to do”. Thats how it’s been anyway but this seems interesting I agree “Cool along with that im taking ownership of you, seeing how you sneaked every time you sniffed his clothes you probably felt embarrassed well now you don’t have to worry as my pet your going to have my scent on you everyday whenever you walk outside people will know just from a whiff of you that you’re a Bitch”. My cock was throbbing the thought of being a slave to Ben gave me so much pleasure my conscious was screaming at me to say no but every other part of me said yes not able to control myself I nodded again.

“Good then as your first task Faggot go get me a fucking beer” I rush to the fridge and grab a beer bringing it to Ben he chuckles “Good boy, your gonna be a good boy forever for me right?” I nod and Ben looks away smiling he must feel so powerful and all i can do is stand here and observe waiting for my next order. Ben puts his feet on the coffee table wiggling his toes he catches me staring “You wanna lick my feet?” I nod “then beg me” I blink and get on my knees putting my head to the ground I plead for a chance to worship his feet the soft and sweaty feet are the only things I need and want as I pick my head off the ground Ben just looks at me “Fine go ahead make sure I feel amazing while you worship them and thank me for this opportunity” I scoot to the end of the table right in front of Ben’s feet the smell was intoxicating I reached out and touched them the soft yet wet skin was perfect I grasped his foot and began massaging.

“Fuck yeah faggot, lets make this a daily routine for you everyday you spend hm 2 hours at my feet” I quickly agree and continue massaging. After a bit longer I stick my tongue out and lick from the bottom of his heel to the top of his toes, after a few of these licks Ben sticks his big toe into my mouth swirling it around “so warm, suck on it” he demands and I oblige licking all over he moans more and pops his toe from in my mouth “that’s enough for today, sit there and think of a good meal to cook for me tonight” I ask what im supposed to eat “the dirt from my feet wasn’t enough?” I shake my head telling him it was and thank him for the food “whatever faggot that’s all you get anyway now go make me my food”

This new life as Ben’s slave was brutal and constantly tiring but still I wouldn’t change it.

[wienerbarnes]

Breathe Deeper

Pairing: Bucky x Reader (Cheek to Cheek)

Word Count: 2,324

Prompt: “Why is it always murder and mayhem with you? Don’t you ever just do normal person things? Eat a sandwich? Brush your teeth? Do you even brush your teeth?” (from a random prompt generator)

Warnings: murder, violence, staging a suicide, ~feelings~

A/N: cafe bustelo does wonders for you at 1 am anyway ive been trying to finish this for like two months. have a couple more ideas for these two but feel free to send me any ideas or requests and ill do em if the inspo strikes! also title is purely the song im listening to as i type this out and has no correlation to the story LOL but hey if yall like tame impala enjoy

MAIN MASTERLIST | CHEEK TO CHEEK MASTERLIST

A single pop is heard as a bullet flies out of your gun into the head of the old man who opened the door.

“Christ! No build up?! No tension?! No confirmation that it’s even him?!” Bucky yells as he wiggles his ear to rid the ringing from it.

You brush past Bucky and slide the gun back into the holster strapped to your thigh. You step over behind whatever his name was, Bucky’s having trouble remembering after that blow to his eardrum, and hook your hands under his arms in order to  drag him back into the empty house.

“Why is it always murder and mayhem with you? Don’t you ever just do normal person things? Eat a sandwich? Brush your teeth? Do you even brush your teeth?” Bucky questions you as he closes the door behind him, stepping in between splatters of blood.

“Nope, gotta leave leftovers for the bugs that live in my mouth.”

“That’s gross.”

“Shut up, help me lug this guy to the bedroom.”

The two of you are in a small town in Northern Oklahoma on the property of one of your ex-Hydra handlers. After a few days of researching, the two of you were able to figure out where he moved to and what he changed his name to after retiring from his prior lifestyle.

“I knew it was him from the second I saw him. You never forget.” You explain to him, both of you positioning his body in the corner of the room.

“You go clean up the entryway, I’ll finish staging over here.” Bucky offers it to you. He takes out his own gun from his own waistband and fires a single shot through the same hole you put in between the guy’s eyes. The splatter that explodes on the walls behind him are perfect, artistic almost. Bucky then starts looking around the room; in the closet, under the bed, until he reaches the night stand where a pretty little pistol lays. Not the same gun as his, but he has a feeling the police system in such a small and unpopulated town won’t bother to investigate this death as a murder as opposed to the obvious suicide that took place.

Bucky notices the small skull and octopus stamped into the side of the gun as he places it in his hands. He rolls his eyes before making his way back over to the entryway where you’re sat on the ground, scrubbing away with a rag in your hands and a bottle of bleach next to you. 

Bucky walks over and takes a seat on the loveseat positioned a few feet away from where you are.

“So, where we heading after this?” Bucky asks you, leaning forward and resting his elbow on the arm of the seat.

“Back to New York? You probably gonna be busy working on that murder case.” You glance at him confused before going back to scrubbing.

Bucky pauses before speaking again, “How do you know about that?”

“I… keep up with my fair share of news.”

“You don’t pay for newspapers nor do you have a TV or a phone; you don’t have news. Besides, we haven’t released any information to the public about anything before we get more leads. So, how do you know about that?” Bucky stares at you, eyebrows pinched a bit in the middle as he awaits your answer.

“Do you wanna stop and get some pie on the way back?”

“No. Did you see something about the murders?” Bucky ignores your attempt at changing the subject.

“You just said you haven’t released anything-”

“I don’t mean on the news, I mean in that empty head of yours.” He teases.

You sigh, “I hate when you ask me about my… head.”

“Well, you could be helping here! You can try and be good!”

“I’m sitting on the floor scrubbing an old guy’s blood out of the wood of his own house after I’ve just blown his brains out.”

“Yeah, a bad old guy!”

You get off the last of the specks of blood before standing up and screwing the cap back onto the bottle of bleach. “I didn’t even see anything about the killer, anyway.”

“So, what did you see?”

“You’re not gonna let this go, are you?”

“Fetch me a bone here, doll.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you’d like that, dog.”

He grabs the bleach and rag from your fingers to free up your hands from carrying anything. Tingles travel up the tips of your fingers and flow up through your wrist into your chest. You glance up and make eye contact with Bucky and the dramatic puppy eyes and pouty lips he’s throwing your way. 

You stare for a few more seconds before looking away, “Check that huge pond in Central Park tomorrow. His next victim will be floating there.” You satisfy him before turning and making your way back outside and to the car the two of you took on your little road trip.

While walking back to the parked car, Bucky quickly rushes in front of you and grasps the handle before you can reach it, allowing you to get in the car while he holds it open for you. He throws you an innocent looking smile, a smile coming from a person who surely didn’t just stage a suicide. You bite back your own smile before taking a seat and letting Bucky close the door behind you.

…

When you open your eyes after your nap, it's dark outside the moving car. You slowly lift your head up off the car window and glance over at Bucky, who you now realize is on the phone with someone.

“I told you, it was a weird anonymous number, Sam. I don’t know where it came from.” Bucky speaks softly on the phone before turning his head to look at you in your sleepy state.

“All they said was to check the pond in Central Park tomorrow. I know it’s sketchy, but we don’t have any other leads anyway, we might as well try it.”

“We sounds like a lot of people, ain’t you say that to me one time? Not all of us are on vacation, you know.” You hear another deep voice through the tiny speaker of the phone against Bucky’s ear.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I’ll be back the day after tomorrow, man.”

Bucky wraps up his conversation as you process what you’ve heard. Bucky has lied, again, to the government, to Captain America, in order to protect you and your existence.

“How’d you sleep?” He asks before your thoughts can get too far from you.

“Fine. We’re already heading back to New York?” 

“We’re stopping at a motel for the night, but after tomorrow’s drive, we’ll get there by sundown.”

You sit up proper and stretch your legs as far out in front of you as you can, the bones crunching and popping in relief at the new position. Bucky cringes next to you. He glances at you and watches you pick at the crust gathered at the corners of your eyes, a yawn escaping you along with the last of your grogginess.

Bucky doesn’t know how he’d fully express it to you, but he’s so happy to see the person you’re growing into. Everyday a little bit more of your personality, your mannerisms, your weirdness, your humor, your ideas; everything about the real you, shows more and more. He sees this beautiful woman who, maybe a year and some ago, was walking the line of death and now sits beside him with neon green nail polish and mismatched socks and cute flower earrings adorning the curve of your ear. He stares at the tattoo on your neck, that angry red face with large eyebrows and wonders whether or not that was your idea or not. He wonders if you have any other tattoos hidden among the space of your skin, he doesn’t remember seeing any along your sides or stomach that nightmare of a night in his apartment-

“You’re swervin’.” 

Bucky clears his throat and snaps his head forward, fixing the car to drive straight on the road. Soon, he sees the promising sign, “Motel in 10 Miles,” and the two of you park in the small lot of the light orange building.

The inside smells of old people, an aged scent that isn’t necessarily bad, but makes you scrunch your nose nonetheless. No bugs in clear sight and the roof is still intact, so it should be suitable for a night of rest.

“We only have rooms available on the first floor for tonight, I’m assuming you’ll want one bed?”

Bucky's throat goes dry for a second, “Yes, that’s fine.” He doesn’t want to consult you as you look far off out the front window of the lobby, back turned to the young woman at the front desk. No matter how small a town in whatever state there is at this point in their journey, there is no risking anyone recognizing you, even if your search mission has been deemed unsolved.

A plastic card is slid into Bucky’s right hand and he begins making his way back outside and down the walkway towards their room for the night. You follow him silently.

“I call showering first, I think there’s small clumps of blood still stuck in my hair.” You tell him, flinging your backpack onto the bed, and pulling out a large sweatshirt and panties and taking them into the bathroom with you. 

While the water begins to run, Bucky undoes the blankets, looks thoroughly through the pillows and in between the sheets in search of bed bugs. Next, inspecting the lamps, outlets, and anything else that could possibly hide a camera, microphone, or any other device. He even contemplates tearing apart the carpet under his feet, but decides against the extra work. He places your bag along with his own backpack on the small table in the corner of the room and fixes the bed to not look like he tore it apart recklessly. I wonder what side she prefers-

The bathroom door opens and a cloud of steam flows out, you soon emerge with a towel wrapped around your head, large sweatshirt hanging off your frame and bare feet digging into the soft carpet beneath you. You fling the towel off of your head using momentum from throwing your head and neck forward, the towel landing on the floor in front of you and your wet hair sending a light spray Bucky feels on his warm face.

By the time Bucky finishes with his shower, the room resembles a sauna and his metal arm has gone hot. A long sleeved shirt and cotton shorts are slipped onto his body along with a pair of thick socks to keep him warm at all times. He steps out of the bathroom, using his towel to rub through his hair, and he spots you using the small mirror on the wall. 

Your legs are on display and your underwear is in sight. Bright pink with WEDNESDAY printed on the behind in bubble letters, it’s Friday, the bottoms of your butt cheeks hanging out the bottom of the fabric. The cotton hugs your body and Bucky can’t help but blush at the sight. His mother would smack him over the head if she were here right now. 

Your shirt is lifted, one of your hands holding it high on your chest where Bucky can see a slip of under your breast peeking, the curve intriguing him. Your other hand is occupied rubbing a colorless liquid along your side, Bucky focuses his attention and realizes your rubbing along the scar he left you from your stitches. The bottle on the table has a label that read Vitamin E Natural Oil. 

Your fingers seem unbelievably soft and gentle as he watches them glide along your side, massaging the shiny oil into your smooth skin. You drop your sweatshirt and gather a bit more oil on your hands before rubbing it into your hips where Bucky can see the faintest stretch marks.

“Sorry ‘bout the scar. O-on your side, I mean.” Bucky stutters out, convincing himself that his body is warm from the shower he took. 

“It probably saved my life, so I can’t say I’m sorry about it.” You respond without turning around, as though you knew he was there watching you lather yourself in oil like the beginning of a softcore porn but didn’t mind him enjoying the show.

“What’s that stuff for, anyways?” Bucky asks as he gathers his old clothes back into his bag, folding each piece before placing the packed bag next to yours on the table. Your bag that clearly does not have folded clothes, only crinkled ones. Bucky empties your bag and folds your clothes for you before neatly packing it and closing the zippers.

“Helps fade scars.”

“Yeah, but why? Scars are cool.” 

“I suppose. I’d still like to lighten them a bit. So they look better, prettier.”

“You’re probably the most beautiful woman I’ve seen in the last few decades.”

“You don’t even remember most of the last few decades,” You try to joke.

“I mean it. It’s a compliment. It’s okay to accept and enjoy compliments, doll.” Bucky looks at you, forcing you to meet his eyes. You see in your peripheries as he puts the cap on the bottle of oil and places it next to your bag. A small smile adorns his face as he looks at you, and you can’t help but feel a knot form in your throat.

It’s been a long while since you’ve received any kind of love, whether that be physical, emotional, mental, or self. It’s an overwhelming feeling when someone who you aren’t actually the closest with gives you such a deep and personal compliment. 

Aren’t the closest with- this is your only friend he the only person you even know. The point is, being the most beautiful woman of the century is much different than having pretty hair or a good sense of humor.

You look away from him before the small bit of wetness can gather in your waterline.

“Which side of the bed do you prefer?” Bucky whispers softly to you, as to not break the safe atmosphere created by his sweet comment.

You clear your throat that now feels thick with tar, “The right.”

“Good. I prefer the left.”

[littlemissvincentvega]

the accident (vincent vega x reader)

“Fuckfuckfuck!!” The car swerves as your dumbass boyfriend yanks the steering wheel left, and you go screeching down the road. You grip the passenger seat for dear life with one hand, the other clamped on the roof handle-- Vincent had just accidentally shot a fucking stranger.

“Baby, I’m tellin’ ya, next time we go to Euro Disney you need to try a Royale with Cheese--”

You scowl at him. “Vince, for the last goddamn time, I’m fucking vegetarian.”

He puffs and blows. “Suit yourself.”

The two of you were parked in a McDonald’s parking lot chomping down on a midnight snack. He had arrived home from a job at just before 11pm, and after lazing about in bed complaining about being hungry, Vincent had driven you both to the nearest cheap drive-thru. 

“The fuck is this you’ve put on?” he sniffs, fiddling with the radio.

“It’s the radio,” you sigh, and he gives you a look. “Fuck you.”

He puts a hand on your thigh, mindlessly stroking his thumb along it as he concentrates on his fatass burger. You do the same with your fries, your right hand over his. There’s always something calming about eating junk food in the car together, and it’s something you and Vince did fairly often. Content in that moment, you gaze up at the blackened sky, when--

“Can you shut your fucking mouth when you’re eating please?” you huff, jerking your head round at him. His cheeks are stuffed with food, and he looks at you, eyes wide and offended.

“What?!” he spits, bits of food spewing through the air.

You cringe at him. “Oh my god, just chew with your mouth shut, you’re driving me nuts!”

“Christ, sorry.”

Not feeling so hungry any more, you dump your leftover fries in Vincent’s lap and rest your head on his shoulder. “Thanks for my food.”

“Mhm,” he mumbles, chewing. “Baby, wanna go for a little walk before we head home?”

“Sure,” you grin, kissing his cheek.

After he’s finished snacking, Vincent steps out of the car and comes round to your side, opening the door for you like a true chauffeur. He offers you a hand, smirking, and as you take it, kisses yours. You giggle, letting him spin you around in a dance, and take his hand. “Honey, you’re hot,” he says, followed by a long, rumbling burp and a childish giggle.

“Jesus, Vince,” you grin, shutting the car door and dragging him across the street. Living in Burbank had its perks, one of them being super close to the beach-- midnight walks along the shore were the reason Vincent thought he was a (as he put it) ‘natural romantic’. Bearing in mind this was the same guy who gave you all the gory details of when he accidentally blocked up Jules’ toilet. “C’mon, I wanna go walk along the shore.”

“Of course, baby.”

You excitedly lead him down to the beach, kicking off your shoes (there was nobody else on there) and feeling the cold sand between your toes. He does the same, bending down to take off his socks while you skip closer to the shore, shivering from the slight chill of the night. Not a minute passes and he jogs down, joining you. “Nights like these, huh,” he smiles, letting you cling to his arm as the two of you slowly walk along the beach. “Natural romantic, I told ya.”

“Sure,” you giggle. As the two of you enjoy your little stroll and have one of your mindless conversations, you tug on his sleeve. “Did you bring your gun?”

“Uh huh, why?”

“Just in case.”

With a smug look on his face, Vincent pulls out his gun and suddenly grabs you, pulling you close to him and prodding it against your waist. “I’m takin’ you captive,” he giggles.

You roll your eyes, smirking. “Why?”

His grip on you softens for a moment while he thinks. “Uh... havin’ too good a tits?” he grins, giving one of them a squeeze.

“Sleaze.”

“Aw, c’mon baby, you know I’m not with ya for your tits!” he protests. “I mean, you’re good at blowjobs too!”

“I know,” you smirk. “Anyway, you can’t shoot me, I’d stamp on your throat as a ghostie.”

“You wanna bet?” 

“No, I fucking don’t!”

Vincent chuckles to himself. “Suit yourself.” He fucks about with his gun as the two of you begin a steady walk back to the car, throwing it between his hands like a child-- it was as if he was trying to make himself look like an idiot.

“How old are you?” you scoff.

“Old enough to be your da-” he begins, but is interrupted by a deafening BANG! that almost knocks you off your feet. Looking at each other in horror, you and Vincent slowly turn to the man the bullet hit-- he’s sprawled on the sand, not moving.

“Vince...”

Your boyfriend looks around frantically. “Fuck, oh fuck, baby, what the fuck did I do?!” he panics, pacing back and forth. Luckily for you two, there’s nobody else to be seen, though you’re both spattered with blood (and a little bit of brain). After locking eyes with him for a couple of seconds, your instincts kick in and you grab his hand, running as fast as you can back to the car and dragging him behind you. He swings the car door open for you. “Get in, quick, baby,” he ushers, scanning the area.

As the car screeches around the corner, Vincent fumbles around the side compartment and yanks out his cellphone, shoving it in your hands without looking. “Call Jules, tell ‘im to tell Marsellus what the fuck just happened ‘cause no way am I gettin’ fuckin’ caught, nuh-uh, not today,” he rambles.

“Shut up and focus on not crashing the fucking car,” you say, dialling Jules’ cell. It doesn’t take long for him to pick up, like usual. “Jules? Can you hear me?”

“Vince, it’s fuckin’ one in the mornin’, fuck you, man, the fuck d’you want?!”

“Nonono, it’s me, it’s (Y/N), we’re in a situation, Vincent just shot a guy by accident again and told me to call you!”

You hear him sigh. “Shit. Where are you?”

“I don’t know, we drove off as soon as we could, uh, there’s like, blood all on us and stuff, I’m freaking out, he’s driving like a maniac, I don’t know what to do!” you cry, your breaths becoming hitched. 

“Alright, alright, be cool, (Y/N), I’ll call Marsellus now and tell him what the fuck happened. Tell that dumb motherfucker to go home and wait there.”

Anxiously, you gulp. “I will.”

“You cool?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright, sweetie. Stay cool. I’m callin’ Marsellus right now, okay? Tell that fucker to drive safe.”

“I will,” you say. “Thanks Jules, bye.”

“What did he say?” Vincent asks, a little bit calmer than before. 

“He said he’s calling Marsellus now, and that we should drive home and wait there and you need to drive safely and I need to be cool.”

“Fair enough. I’m sorry, baby.”

“It’s cool. I’m cool, we’re cool.”

The usually five minute drive home seems so long and drawn out with the panic you two are in, but soon enough he pulls up in his usual parking space, slamming his foot on the brake and jerking you both forward. Without a word, the two of you immediately get out and speedwalk (arm in arm, ain’t no situation gonna kill your romance) into the apartment complex he lives at, then dash to the elevator. As the doors close, you both let out sighs of relief, looking at one another tiredly. “The fuck did we just do, baby?” 

“I don’t know, it’s scary,” you sniffle, clutching onto his hand timidly. He rubs his thumb against your hand, looking at you with a layer of guilt in his eyes-- Vincent never wanted to hurt you. True, he could be an insensitive asshole sometimes, but it was never his intent to upset you.

“I’m sorry, honeypie, it’ll be fine, it always is, huh?” he assures you, and the elevator doors open at the seventh floor. Hurriedly, he heads to his apartment (no. 52) and fumbles with his keys, trying to unlock the door. You trail behind him and as he opens the door, follow him into the apartment, still anxious. “So, uh, the fuck did Julie say again?” he asks.

The two of you go to his bedroom (well, your bedroom, as you always say, seeing as you stayed there often enough it was practically home) and you join him in sitting on the end of the bed. “We just have to wait at home, I think?”

“Alright.” He wraps his arm around you, pulling you close. “I’m really sorry, lemonpie.”

“It’s fine, I just feel bad for the fucker you shot.”

“Why?”

You look up at him, scowling. “Vince, he’s a fucking person, that’s why!”

“Oh, yeah.”

Vincent was a sweetheart really, but he always found new ways to surprise you with his dumbassery. “God, look at your hair, look at all that shit-- let me comb it, babe, please!” you beg, burying your head in his neck and kissing it softly.

“Fuckin’ Christ, alright,” he huffs, and you jump up, fetching the comb from his en-suite. With a grin on your face, you kneel behind him on the bed, dragging the comb through his knotted, greasy (and not to mention bloody) locks. “Hey, not so violent, baby!” he cringes.

“Should’a thought of that before you chewed with your mouth open,” you retort.

“I said I was so--” he begins, but you flick the back of his head with a smirk. “Y’know, you’re bein’ a real little shit tonight.”

“You’re the one who shot an innocent stranger.”

“How the fuck d’you know he was innocent?!” he says defensively, turning around to face you. “I could’a done the world a favour there!”

“Well we’ll never know because you didn’t give the bastard a chance!”

Defeated, he turns back around, miffed. “It was only an accident,” he mutters under his breath. 

“Are you done complaining yet?”

“I’m not complainin’, I--”

You cut him off again with a flick to the back of his head, and continue combing out the clots of blood, cringing at the state of it. “Yuck, I think I need to wash your hair, this isn’t pretty.”

“No way, if fuckin’ Marsellus gets here or some other fucker workin’ for him and sees you washin’ my hair like I’m a baby, I’ll look like--” he splutters, trying to think of a word, “--like a fuckhead!”

“You looked like one before you shot that guy, you looked like one while you shot him, and you look like one now,” you retort.

He huffs. “Whatever, just fuckin’ wash it, I don’t even care. In fact, why don’t ya make it bright pink while you’re at it? Make me look even more fuckin’ stupid?”

“I’m tempted, but it’s not worth the effort,” you smile, hopping off the bed. “Wait there, babe.” Grinning to yourself at the opportunity, you head to the kitchen and fill up a large bowl (that you’d usually use for popcorn) with warm water. Sure, it had been overall pretty traumatic, but laughter was the best medicine, right? Giggling, you return to the bedroom and Vincent’s face drops.

“I’m not a fuckin’ dog!”

“I know, I love dogs. C’mon,” you say, placing the bowl on the floor, “dip your hair in, let me baptise you.”

“Fuckin’ Christ. Y’know what? Fine, just ‘cause I complained at you earlier and I’m a good boyfriend,” he growls, yanking off his jacket and leaving it in a scruffy pile on the bed. He lays on the floor and lets you gently dunk his hair in the bowl, then you squirt a little shampoo on his hair, massaging the blood from it. He quietens down after this, and it seemed to you like he was actually really relaxed by it-- you peek round his shoulder and see his eyes closed in contentment.

“You like it?”

“Mhm. Feels nice.”

Smiling, you run the comb through his hair again, and the blood seems to be coming out nicely-- though the moment is ruined when the door swings open and Winston Wolfe (along with Jules) struts in, followed by a burst of laughter. “Christ, Vega, is this a ladies’ salon?” Winston titters, and Vincent lets out a tired sigh.

“No!”

Jules can hardly contain himself. “Jeez, man, I was gonna leave it to Mr. Wolf to deal with this and go back to sleep, but man am I glad I came along!”

“It’s not fuckin’ funny!”

“Actually, it is,” smirks Winston. He looks across at you. “Honey, you wouldn’t fetch me a coffee, would ya?”

“No problem, Mr. Wolfe. Lots’a cream, lots’a sugar?” you grin, and he nods approvingly. This wasn’t the first time you’d met him and it sure as hell wouldn’t be the last time, not with Vincent’s stupidity. As you totter off to the kitchen, Vincent stands up, scrubbing his hair sheepishly with a towel.

“She made me let her do it,” he mutters, giving the two guys a look.

“Hey, hey, leave the lovely lady alone. That girl just watched you shoot some innocent motherfucker and offered to wash that shit out your hair, so be fuckin’ grateful,” Winston growls. 

“Yeah, man, you want me to tell her you been shit talkin’ her?” Jules taunts.

“Fuck you, man, I wasn’t shit talkin’ her, fuck you!!” 

“Alright gentlemen, stop with the arguing and let me figure somethin’ out,” says Winston. “So, uh, bet it’s been a while since you’ve had shampoo on that greasy mop’a yours, huh?” 

Jules chuckles and, cursing under his breath, Vincent storms out to the kitchen, where you’re stirring the guys’ coffees. “Baby, tell ‘em to stop makin’ fun of me,” he whines, leaning against the counter.

“Christ, Vince, I’m not your mother, this isn’t a playdate!” you exclaim, rolling your eyes. It shuts him up for a moment.

After looking rather docile, he shuffles over to you. “Can I have a cuddle or somethin’?” he mutters.

“What was that?” you tease, putting a hand behind your ear.

He clears his throat. “Can I have a cuddle?”

Smiling, you wrap your arms around him, letting him cradle you. The two of you stand there swaying gently, his chest rising up & down beneath your head, and he lets out a sigh. Feeling guilty about the whole situation, Vincent squeezes his eyes shut. “I love you, honeypie,” he mumbles.

“I love you too,” you grin, stepping on your tiptoes and kissing his cheek. 

“Aaaawwwwwwwwww,” a voice says, and you turn to see Jules and The Wolf standing in the doorway, cackling away to themselves. “Love’s young dream,” Winston smirks. 

Almost instantly, Vince lets go of you and goes into defensive mode. “Fuck you man, fuck you!”

“No, it’s rather sweet, really. You love your little lady.”

“I know, shut up!” he complains, avoiding their eyes. “Can we just sort this shit out please?”

“Hold your fuckin’ horses, I need my coffee,” says Winston, smiling at you as you pass it him. “Thanks, sweetheart.”

“No problem, Mr. Wolfe,” you smile.

“Oh, and good job on that asshole’s hair,” he adds, nodding at Vincent, who can’t help but snap.

“Fuck you!”